


Echoes of Mercy (Whispers of Love)

by JolyOllie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Crowley has anisocoria, Florist Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Trans Crowley (Good Omens), WARNING: there will be questionable poetry, aziraphale has anxiety that's canon, he's also dyslexic, just a lil bit for funsies, pepper is a budding young lesbian fight me on it, the florist/bookshop au no one asked for, there's a surprising amount of plot in this, they don't play major roles in the story but it's there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 08:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19764319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JolyOllie/pseuds/JolyOllie
Summary: The world is quiet in the village of Tadfield.And when I say ‘The world is quiet in the village of Tadfield’ I mean that the world doesn’t have much to say about the village of Tadfield, so doesn’t bother. No one ever talks about Tadfield - not even the people of Tadfield - because nothing ever happens there that warrants discussion.So when Crowley moves into a cottage on the high street, everyone notices, especially the bookseller across the road.[not abandoned just on hiatus x]





	1. Rare, Odd, and Out of the Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> This the first fic I've ever actually published here we gooooooo
> 
> the first chapter is kinda short sorry i promise it gets longer

The world is quiet in the village of Tadfield.

And when I say ‘The world is quiet in the village of Tadfield’ I mean that the world doesn’t have much to say about the village of Tadfield, and so doesn’t bother.

Tadfield is just a small town in the south of England that happens to have lovely crisp autumns, long hot Augusts, and snow - without fail - every Christmas Eve. That last fact-ette has been puzzling meteorologists for the last eleven years, with no sign of an answer coming anytime soon. 

The weather doesn’t care. It never asked anyone to study it. The weather just _is_ , and quite frankly, having probes sent up into the clouds, and condensation measured, and people constantly talking about its ‘next move’ is really starting to piss it off. The weather doesn’t have a ‘five year plan’ or goals to reach. It does what it wants. Maybe one day it’ll finally get fed up and decide that what it wants is to sod off, leaving everyone wondering where it went. But for now, for Tadfield, it wants to be serene.

No one ever talks about Tadfield - not even the people of Tadfield - because nothing ever happens there that warrants discussion. The nunnery and hospital just outside the village is full of mouthy nuns who aren’t very good at their job, so people avoid going there if at all possible. The woods across from Hogback Lane have been the domain of the town’s youth for as long as anyone is willing to admit remembering. The citizens of Tadfield are perfectly respectable, ordinary, slightly dull people. Nothing of interest ever happens there, and as far as anyone’s concerned (which they aren’t) nothing ever will.

Which is why, on an aforementioned crisp autumn morning, humble bookseller Aziraphale Fell was fascinated by the moving van parked across the street from his book shop. 

He was not fascinated by the _van_ per-se. He had seen a van on many occasions during his colourful life, sometimes moving. Rather, he was intrigued by what might be _in_ the moving van, and who was driving it, and why it was here. 

Of course, one would assume that someone had hired a moving van and filled it with domestic belongings, which were now being unpacked into the previously vacant building, because they themselves were moving in, but one doesn’t like to assume. It tends to make an ass out of all involved.

Instead, Aziraphale _inferred_ this conclusion from all the evidence mentioned above.

This was all rather rare, and odd, and out of the ordinary, and Aziraphale was nothing if not excited to see what a new resident would do to the sleepy township. He would never had said anything to anyone - wouldn’t want to disturb the peace - but it had been his feeling that little Tadfield had been in need of a little shaking up for quite some time now. He had been living here a while, and had seen the village slip further and further into a hum-drum rhythm of ‘wake up, “Hello, Gertrude!”, go to work, come home, pretend to scold your child for taking an apple from the communal orchard that no one else was going to eat anyway, have tea, watch the news, go to bed’. And while Aziraphale enjoyed tending to his bookshop and telling stories to the local children, and he adored old Lillian and her local cafe, there were times when he would catch himself wistfully harking back to times of crêpes in Paris, or discussions of the great Bard’s work with Harvard scholars.

Yes, Aziraphale thought, a change, however small, would do him and the village some good.

He resolved to go and introduce himself to his new neighbour as soon as possible. That is to say, as soon as he’d finished his cup of tea.

**. **

**. **

_“JESUS ON A FUCKING TRICYCLE!”_ is what Aziraphale heard as he crossed the street towards his new neighbour. He hurried towards the open front door from which he’d heard the expletive, but stopped at the threshold. It would be rude of him to simply enter another person’s home without permission, but what if the person was incapable of inviting him in because of an accident? He could hear grunting coming from further in the house. Moving house involved shifting a lot of heavy furniture, what if something had fallen on the poor soul and they were injured and stuck? Aziraphale was momentarily paralysed by indecision before his body clicked into its overly polite autopilot and knocked gently on the door.

“Hello?”

A louder groan responded from beyond the front room.

“Is everything all right in there?”

Nothing.

Aziraphale steeled himself, and entered.

The front room, which had originally been a butchers before Big Businesses had made it obsolete, was fairly sparse still. Some shelves and unbuilt flatpack furniture lay haphazardly around, along with tins of paint. Aziraphale caught himself checking on the colour choice before remembering _why_ he was nosing around someone else’s new home. He hurried through to the hallway and immediately discovered where the pained noises were coming from.

Lying on the floor, half in the hallway, half in the room attached, was a palm tree. It seemed small enough that it would fit within the confines of the building’s ceiling height, and Aziraphale sold multiple books on the many benefits of houseplants and how to care for them, so its presence was not altogether surprising, but the soil spread across the already stained carpet and broken pot revealing the palm’s roots were probably not what the owner had had in mind.

Aziraphale sucked at his teeth seeing all the mulch and broken terracotta strewn across the floor. It was sure to be a nasty clean up job.

“Are you just going to stay there and tut or are you going to hurry up and mug me already?” Came a deep drawl from within the room.

“Uh - My good man,” Aziraphale stuttered as he stepped over the tree and into the room, “I can assure you that no one in Tadfield would even _dream_ of doing such a thing to you.”

From the crouched position he was in (Aziraphale assumed he’d arrived there during an attempt to stop the potting disaster) a lanky man with shoulder length red hair raised his eyebrows and looked at Aziraphale with equal parts disbelief and contempt. At least, that was the impression Aziraphale got. He couldn’t actually _see_ the eyes louring at him from behind the dark glasses perched upon his sharp nose.

“Well, it’s nice that you hold this area in such high esteem,” the man practically sneered as he rose to a standing position.

“Indeed I do. I am Aziraphale,” he extended his arm out in an invitation to shake the other man’s hand. “I live across the street, above the bookshop, which I also own and run.”

“Ah, yes ‘A.Z Fell & Co.’ Well, then, Mr Fell, I assume - if I may call you that,” (Aziraphale nods) “thank you so much for stopping by and witnessing me in such a compromised position, but I must be getting back to work.”

The man takes Aziraphale’s hand in his before almost immediately letting go with the speed and energy of a man burned.

“Of course. I only came by because… well… the yelling.”

“Yeah. I yell a lot so… get used to it.”

“Indeed… Well, I’ll leave you be! If you ever need anything, let me know. You know where to find me!”

“Yes, I do.”

And Aziraphale walked out of the room, and then the house. He crossed the road and went back to his bookshop. He flipped the sign to OPEN and went about his day serving customers, only occasionally thinking of the man in the building opposite. He looked awfully slim. How was he going to manage getting all his furniture upstairs?

**. **

**. **

Meanwhile, with Aziraphale safely out of earshot, Crowley sunk to the ground again and sighed defeatedly. “Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”


	2. Banana Nut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Them ingratiate themselves, Crowley briefly ponders Dick Turpin, and Aziraphale offers to change up his wardrobe a bit (with less than favourable results.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support from the first chapter! Here's another one <3

Children’s laughter trickled through the open window as Aziraphale put the finishing touches to his gift basket. He would have to be careful to not let them see the sweet treats or half of them will have ‘disappeared’ before he managed to cross the road (and a couple had already gone missing thanks to Aziraphale’s own sweet tooth.) Adam and his friends were so polite and lovely, Aziraphale just couldn’t say no to them.

As he lay a paisley tea-towel over his freshly bought muffins, Aziraphale heard Pepper’s recognisably commanding tone yell, “No, Brian! You know what he said about getting it anywhere but on the walls!”

This peaked Aziraphale’s interest immensely. What fun little game had they made up now? He did love observing the Them as they pranced about in their fantasy world, finding witches and building castles. It reminded him of a simpler time - one before the worries of business, and bills, and having a metabolism that wasn’t so forgiving when he ate three too many apricot danishes.

Tucking the neatly concealed basket under his arm, Aziraphale made his way outside.

“Hello, Aziraphale!” A lightly flushed Adam Young called from across the street.

The image Aziraphale was presented with as he locked the door behind him was not entirely, or at all, what he’d been expecting. Rather than four children riding bicycles, or chasing after each other with sticks, or even simply walking along covered in mud after a particularly messy escapade, in front of him were four young people wearing smocks and holding paint brushes.

Further inspection of the scene revealed that the old butchers was now halfway painted a different colour, as well.

“Hello, Adam, Pepper, Brian, Wensleydale. What’s going on here?"

“Mr Crowley got us to help paint his house,” little Wensleydale piped up.

“He said, if we were so hell bent on pestering him, we could at least be useful while we were doing it,” Brian added. Aziraphale noted that he was already well on his way to being half covered in paint.

“ _Were_ you pestering him?”

“Only a little bit,” Adam said with a grin.

Aziraphale fixed him with a disapproving look, but it held no weight and they both knew it.

“I’m not paying you to talk,” came a familiar drawl, as a familiar ginger haired man came out holding four glasses of water precariously in his two hands.

“Actually,” Wensleydale said as he took one, “you’re not paying us at all.”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t talk so much, I would.”

“Slave labour is _not_ a good look, Mr Crowley.” Pepper reached and took one as well, vastly lessening the taller man’s load, as well as Aziraphale’s anxiety over the likelihood of broken glass being strewn across the pavement.

“Oh, are you about to unionise, are you?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Aziraphale said. 

The slender man - Mr Crowley - had been watching the children, but now his head whipped around to face Aziraphale as if he hadn’t noticed his presence until now (which may have been true.)

“Mr Fell!” Mr Crowley said after a second of faltering. “To what do we owe this, um… pleasure?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale giggled, “just out enjoying the sunshine.” Why was he so nervous all of a sudden? He’d picked out a generous selection of his favourite muffins from Lillian’s cafe (banana and walnut, in case anyone was considering buying him any) to give to his new neighbour as a welcoming present after their first meeting had been less than desirable. These were Lillian’s most popular muffins. Everyone loved her banana and walnut muffins. So why was he nervous? Well, what if Mr Crowley didn’t like muffins, or bananas or walnuts in particular? What if he had some sort of dietary requirement? Oh, Lord, what if he was _allergic?_ Nut allergies were awfully common these days, as was an intolerance to gluten. Aziraphale should have put more thought into this gift. Now he was going to seem such an insensitive dimwit for not foreseeing Mr Crowley’s deadly allergy to these muffins.

“What’s in the basket, Aziraphale?” Adam’s voice pulled him out of his panicked spiral.

“Oh! Uh, just these.” He whipped off the tea-towel and watched as the children’s eyes grew wide at the sight of so many sweet banana muffins.

Yes, he thought. I can pass it off as if I’d meant these to be for the kids. Problem solved.

Brian was practically salivating over a particularly large and golden goodie that Aziraphale had _sworn_ to himself he _wouldn’t_ eat, no matter how burning the desire of the more animalistic aspect of his brain. 

Seeing this, Mr Crowley sighed and said, “Alright, take a quick break and stuff your faces, but then back to work!”

The children quickly took their pick and went to sit on the curb and chatter.

“Make a habit of giving candy to kids, do we?”

Aziraphale spluttered, but managed to get out, “Of course not! Not like that! Why, even the notion -”

Mr Crowley was grinning cheekily at him. Realising that this horrid accusation had been a _joke,_ of all things, Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Nice of you to bring them over. Shame some snotty kids got to them before I could, but it’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t have been able to finish them, anyway.”

“Brian’s hygiene has actually improved quite a lot recently.”

Mr Crowley just pulled a more disgusted face at that.

“You don’t like children?”

“They have their uses,” Mr Crowley said, toeing a half empty paint can.

“You do a very good job of hiding it.”

“Well, yeah, it’s not their fault they’re kids. They’ll grow out of it eventually, it’s just a painful process.”

Aziraphale regarded the Them as he pondered this. He could never imagine holding anything but love for such young, impressionable, imaginative people, but he had to admit, they could make quite a raucous, and Mr Crowley seemed the more quiet type.

“Care for one?” 

Pulling his gaze away from the children, Aziraphale saw that he was being offered one of his muffins.

“Why not?” As he took one, Mr Crowley reached in as well. Their hands brushed lightly for a moment as they both chose their respective muffins, but Mr Crowley retracted his at lightning speed.

“Sorry. Should’ve just waited my turn.”

“They say patience is a virtue.”

The tall man barked out a loud laugh, and Aziraphale took a bite to hide the smile promising to break on his own face. He had known this man for exactly twenty four hours, but got a strong impression that he didn’t laugh very often.

Aziraphale’s hand safely out of the way, Mr Crowley swooped in and picked out a muffin.

He took a bite, but whatever he was trying to say around the mouthful was drowned out by the engine of a blue Reliant Robin coming to a stop in front of them.

“Are those Lillian’s banana walnut muffins?!”

“Newt!” Anathema hissed, and then turned on a radiant smile. “Hello,” she said to Mr Crowley. “You must be new. I’m Anathema and this is my fiancé, Newt. We live up at Lavender Cottage.”

“How on Earth did he manage that?” Aziraphale heard Mr Crowley mutter, so he took another bite to mask his snort. (Though not quickly enough, it would seem, as another cheeky grin was sent his way.)

“None left, I’m afraid,” Mr Crowley said to the eager Newton Pulsifer as he used the tea-towel to cover up the remaining two muffins.

“Damn kids.”

“Newton!” Anathema batted his arm before turning her attention once again to Mr Crowley. “So you’re moving in to the old butchers?”

“Is that what it was?”

“What are you going to do with the old salesroom?”

“Nothing. It’s staying a salesroom.”

“What are you going to sell?” Brian called as the Them returned from their break, now interested in what the grownups were talking about. “Are you going to turn it into an ice-cream store that has thirty nine flavours, like in America?”

“Do I sound American to you?”

“No, you sound like you’re from London.”

“There aren’t even thirty nine flavours of ice cream that exist, anyway, Brian,” Pepper scolds.

Aziraphale could think of _at least_ thirty nine flavours he’d tried over the years, but he won’t mention it.

“Come on, guys,” Adam said. “We should probably get back to work.”

“That’s right. And you know what’ll happen to you all if any paint get on the window panes!”

“We’ll die a painful death,” the children recited in unison.

“That’s right.”

“Uhm… yes, well, we better be going,” Anathema laughed. “Good luck with the rest of the painting. You kids behave!”

“Don’t worry, we will!” Wensleydale called while Pepper yelled, “Brian, no!” as the boy vigorously slapped paint onto carved wood dangerously close to the double glazing.

Aziraphale and Mr Crowley watched as the Robin struggled to pull away.

“Does his car say ‘Dick Turpin’?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure, if I’m honest. I’ve never asked.”

Mr Crowley shrugged and leant down to pick up the now empty glasses before moving to take them inside.

“I could help too, if you like! Many hands make light work, and all,” Aziraphale rushed out.

The ginger haired man turned to face him with a dubious look. “I’m not sure gun metal grey goes very well with cream three piece suits.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed awkwardly. Of course not, what a silly proposition. “I could wear one of those smocks like the children are.”

Mr Crowley swallowed hard and stuttered. “You could - w… my… No!”

“No?”

“No! Y… you lot, come here!”

“Us?” Adam called back.

“Yes! Who else would I be talking to? C’m’ere!”

The children put down their paint brushes and made their way over warily.

“Gimme my shirts back, you’re done for the day.”

“But we haven’t finished!”

“How observant of you, Pepper. But maybe _I_ want to finish the job, it being my house and all.”

“Oh. Okay.”

They pulled the long black shirts over their shoulders and handed them back, looking rather sullen all of a sudden.

“Thank you for letting us hel-”

“Yeah, yeah, go on. Go be kids somewhere else.”

“We’ll be sure to tell your parents how helpful you’ve been today,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t want them going home sad after a fun day out.

“Thank you, Aziraphale.”

The Them left down the road back home, and Aziraphale turned to the man next to him who was now pulling on one of the abandoned shirts.

“Well, I’ll leave this with you,” he said, placing the basket on the curb, “and I’ll leave you to it. Again.”

“Thanks,” Mr Crowley mumbled, picking up a paintbrush and resuming work.

Aziraphale shook his head lightly at the man’s mysterious temper before looking both ways across the street and returning to his bookshop.

**. **

**. **

That evening, in the dimly lit laundry, Crowley piled the old shirts into the washing machine. Getting the last of the paint off the shirt he’d leant that Brian kid, he sighed, and switched on the dark load. The remaining smell of the rubbing alcohol he’d used to remove the paint stains gave him a headache, and he messaged the bridge of his nose where his glasses usually sat, leaving a small indentation.

He was feeling pretty rubbish about today, if he was honest with himself. Yes, he’d finished repainting the shop’s facade, and the day had started out pretty well with getting to know some of the village, but bloody Aziraphale had to go and ruin it by being so polite and helpful and offering to _wear his clothes_. 

It was so stupid, but the thought of any of his almost entirely black wardrobe contrasting against such a pale complexion - _Aziraphale’s_ pale complexion - left a shiver running down his spine.

It took all of Crowley’s self control to not slap himself. He’d seen this man three times in his entire life, met him _twice_. He needed to get a grip.

More than that, he needed a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *yeets out of existence once again*


	3. Son of Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tries his hand at being a charming bastard (with mixed results), deliveries and boo-boos are made, and Pepper comes in with an unexpected request for Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to upload this yesterday but then i like.... didn't lol so here we are uploading at midnight like we have our lives together or something

It was 9:30 in the morning when Aziraphale heard a knock at the door.

Opening it, he saw Mr Crowley with a puzzled look behind his dark glasses, holding his basket and tea-towel.

“I thought you’d be open by now.”

“Oh, look at the time!” He feigned surprise. “Yes, I suppose most people would be.” But he never kept a strict schedule. Everyone in Tadfield knew that by now.

As his neighbour came inside, Aziraphale noticed that the tinted spectacles stayed on despite the dim lighting within the shop. Curious, he thought, but he seemed very ‘on trend’. It was probably some modern fashion that all the ‘hip’ people were doing these days.

“Just wanted to drop this off before all the deliveries started rolling in.”

“Oh? What’s coming?” Aziraphale asked, taking the basket off his hands and moving over to the service desk to put it down.

“Signage,” Mr Crowley answered, following him further into the shop, “and then most of the larger stock pieces later this afternoon. Won’t be getting the rest until opening day, so that’ll be a nice headache.”

“Oh, goodness, that sounds very stressful.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Mr Crowley said, and lent against the counter, all bewitching smiles and slow, precise movements. Aziraphale was sure he hadn’t meant it this way, because why would he, but the whole ordeal came across as rather seductive, and he felt his cheeks begin to heat up.

“Oh, I’m…” Aziraphale stuttered and stumbled as he took in more of the slender man in front of him. The way his hip was jutting out left a small patch of skin exposed where his tight t-shirt had ridden up. Unlike the man’s face, which was covered in lightly faded freckles, his mid-section was paler and unblemished but for the inkling of a hint of hair at his navel (although, Aziraphale thought, how anyone could view the freckles that covered Mr Crowley’s face like the most distant stars in the night sky as _blemishes_ , was beyond him.) The man was all long lines and sharp angles, and Aziraphale was suddenly quite self conscious at how warm and flushed his cheeks were getting.

“I-I’m sure you’re not _wicked_.”

Mr Crowley tutted and pushed off the counter back to a straighter position. 

“Ye of little faith,” he said with a smirk.

Aziraphale giggled as he watched his neighbour saunter out of the shop and across the road.

**. **

**. **

Crowley shut his front door behind him and made it all the way to the kitchen (an honourable feat, really) before his whole body began to wiggle and gyrate with excitement. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, _YES_!”

Pumping his fists in the air like an uncoordinated boxer, he jumped and jogged on the spot as if he were a schoolgirl who’d just been noticed by her schoolyard crush, which, in all honesty, he basically was.

Dancing had never been a talent that Crowley possessed. He didn’t think he was very good at it and neither did anyone else, but he indulged himself in a little disco fever just this once, because if Crowley could read a man, and he believed that he in fact _could_ , then Aziraphale Z. Fell of A.Z. Fell & Co was open and ready to be reeled in by Crowley’s immeasurable and dubious charm.

His questionable booty shaking was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Steeling a much more neutral expression to his giddy features, he slumped back into his regular care-free slouch and went to answer it.

“Are you Anthony Crowley?” Asked a young man. His work uniform was some god-awful fluro orange viscose number, and he was wearing far too much hair gel for the little hair he actually had on his head. It was taking all of Crowley’s energy not to sneer cruelly at the sight of him.

“Yep.”

“Great! I’m Mads from Southern Signage. We’ve got,” he checked his clipboard, “one large ‘Sun of Eden’ and two small a-frames?”

“Yep.”

“Great! Me and Derek will get onto installing it and let you know when it’s ready!”

“Thanks.”

Mads grinned and went back to the truck parked on the curb.

Free of the insufferably jolly tradesman, Crowley went back inside. He jumped onto the couch with much less grace than he had imagined, and checked his phone.

No text from Aziraphale yet.

That’s fine. He can wait.

**. **

**. **

Across the road in the bookshop, Aziraphale had hidden the empty basket away in his kitchen, completely missing the small square of paper tucked away inside with a few digits scrawled across it. He surveyed the cramped room, taking in the piles of dishes stacked on top of the cupboards and the mounds of paperwork strewn across the table. Perhaps a little tidying would make the space feel less claustrophobic. He’d get round to that eventually.

“Excuse me, Aziraphale?” Came a voice from the doorway.

“Oh, Pepper!” Aziraphale breathed out after almost jumping out of his skin. “You gave me an awful fright! What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you had any books on poetry.”

Aziraphale considered her query for a moment, bringing Pepper away from his personal accommodation and back onto the shop floor.

“That’s quite a broad enquiry. Why don’t we narrow it down a little.”

“Love poems.”

_“Love poems.”_

“IT’S FOR SCHOOL,” she rushed out. He could see she was chewing her lip fervently and looked about ready to burst with anxiety, so, while Aziraphale did _not_ believe that it was for school, he wasn’t going to push any further into the matter.

“Oh, Pepper, that’s very good of you to take your studies so seriously.”

“I want to know how to write one. And I know I could just google some but you’re the best at this sort of thing and I really want your help with it.”

Once her spiel was done, she went about catching her breath again, while Aziraphale went about _not_ betraying how chuffed he was to have been her go-to in this venture, no matter what it was for.

“Well, romantic poetry is a cornerstone of the genre, so there's plenty to choose from,” he began, scanning his shelves for something suitable. “How about Shakespeare’s sonnets?” he said, pulling out the small book. “A true classic.”

“Aren’t sonnets really hard to write?”

“Poetry isn’t about rhyme or rhythm, dear. It’s about transferring what lives in your heart on to the page.”

“Wow… so I could write literally anything and it would still be poetry?”

“If that’s what you choose to call it, then yes.”

“But what if she doesn’t like it? It needs to be good. It needs to be _perfect_.”

Aziraphale smiled at her slip up. So it _is for_ someone.

“Well,” he began, “the term ‘good’ is subjective. As long as it is true to you, then it is ‘good’. If whoever reads it sees the effort you put in, then I’m sure they’ll feel the same.”

Pensive, Pepper scanned the shelves, her eyes lighting up as they landed on a particular title.

“What about Emily Dickinson?”

Her work did seem to fit this situation quite flawlessly. Aziraphale was impressed. “You’ve done your research!”

Pepper’s smile was sheepish and a little shy, but he knew her well enough to spot the well placed pride present in her face as well.

“Tell you what,” he said, picking the desired book off the shelf, “I’ll throw in some Maya Angelou, and we’ll make it a deal.”

The young girl’s eyes grew wide and a smile split across her face. “Oh, _thank you_ , Aziraphale!” And she rushed into a hug that knocked the air from his lungs.

Laughing, he patted her hair awkwardly. “You’re quite welcome, dear. Anything for a budding wordsmith.”

**. **

**. **

Anthony J. Crowley was _terrible_ at waiting.

The larger pots and more mature trees had arrived while Mads and Derek’s drills were still whirring away, but Crowley had barely been able to rip his attention away from the phone sitting silent in his hand to sign his own name.

“Got an important call coming in?” The poor, unsuspecting delivery driver had asked. Like Mads The Tradesman, they were all smiles and genuine attempts at conversation and humour. It was the last thing Crowley had needed. What Crowley needed was One Particular Thing which he wasn’t getting, and he didn’t like that. Not one bit.

“Yeah, it’s your next delivery. A few dozen braincells to be installed right in your skull!”

The driver’s face had fallen from an expression of hopeful cheer to one of quiet disappointment.

“Have a good day, I guess,” they’d said, taking the clipboard back from Crowley’s white knuckled grasp and trudging out the door.

“Have a good life,” Crowley had muttered, and risked another glance at his phone - nothing, again. It had taken all his admittedly limited self control not to throw the traitorous machine at the nearest wall (which was now covered by potted bamboo and looked rather nice, if Crowley had been of the mind to notice such a thing - which he wasn’t.)

Now, Crowley was being called outside by the wet drip who was Mads The Tradesman to inspect their handiwork and sign off on the whole blasted thing. A small voice in his head that he rarely listened to piped up saying that none of this was any of their fault, and they didn’t deserve his foul mood. Ruining other people’s days wasn’t going to make his any better. Also, he doesn’t know what’s holding Aziraphale up! There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this that isn’t ‘You disgust me and I hope you get hit by a lorry so I never have to deal with your nauseating presence ever again.’

He impolitely told the annoying screechy sound to sod off, and scribbled his name on the dotted line presented to him.

“Thank you, sir, and have a pleasant rest of the day!”

“I’ll do my darnedest.”

The tradesmen gave a quick nod and headed back to their van. Crowley stepped out into the road to get a better look at his completed shopfront, only to let out a quite loud and very emphatic “What the _FUCK_?” at what he saw.

Mads’ head popped out the driver side window. 

“Everything alright?”

_Son_ of Eden.

_SON OF EDEN._

“It’s spelt wrong, you buffoons!”

A crease of confusion appeared on Mads’ brow as he hopped out and made his way to stand next to Crowley.

“Which bit?”

Crowley took a deep breath and attempted to follow the little voice’s advice to ‘chill’.

“My store is called ‘Sun of Eden’.”

Mads frowned further and squinted at the sign he’d spent too long installing. 

“I don’t understand. That’s what it says - ‘Son of Eden’.”

“ _No_ ,” Crowley hissed, “S-U-N - _sun_.”

“ _Oh_. Well you can see how they got it mixed up.”

“I don’t _care_ _how_ they got it mixed up, I need it changed!”

Mads averted his gaze from the misspelled signage and looked at Crowley with a much more bewildered eye than the business owner would have liked. He gulped. 

“Um. But, sir… You’ve already signed all the paperwork. It’s no longer Southern Signage’s property as per our company policy, which can be found on our website and also on the contract we gave yo - ”

“ _Fix it_ ,” Crowley seethed.

“I can’t,” Mads said, voice very small, attempting to make his body even smaller.

Crowley groaned and stormed back inside where he was safe from seeing the abomination.

If he’d been of the right mind to notice such a thing, Crowley would have seen that while there _was_ a slight error in the signage, the design itself was beautiful. Large sweeping letters (mis)spelt out a name that promised perfect plants in a welcoming atmosphere born to nurture and cultivate. Vines twirled around the strong black lettering, and a few flowers burst out at perfectly designed and calculated random intervals to add a nice pop of colour.

But he wasn’t, so he didn’t.

Instead he looked at his idle phone once more before consoling himself in the knowledge that at least, for now, life couldn’t get much worse for poor Anthony.

**. **

**. **

Antonio Vivaldi’s ‘The Four Seasons’ played in the empty bookshop as Aziraphale tidied up ready for closing. He hummed along to his favourite bits and simply absorbed the fleeting sounds of others, but eventually, the final notes of ‘Winter’ played and he deemed his shop clean enough for the time being.

Making his way to the back of the old building, into the kitchen, the bookseller considered what he might have for dinner tonight. He fancied something simple - quick to make but heavenly to eat. Perhaps a nice eggs benedict? He still had some smoked salmon in the fridge and, while he may not be the most gifted of cooks, even _he_ could whip up a satisfactory hollandaise sauce.

Yes, he mused. That would do quite nicely.

But before he could do that, he’d have to take care of that pile of dishes, or he’d have nothing to eat off! And once he’d done that he’d need to dry them so he’d need his tea towel, which was - his tea towel! Where was his tea towel? The one covered in bluebells and bluebirds, where was it?

_OH!_

Honestly, he’d forget his own head if it weren't screwed on so tightly.

With a succinct flourish, Aziraphale retrieved the cloth from the old wicker basket, and was about to start on the crockery when he noticed a leaflet come flying out with it. Ever a curious man, he put the towel aside and went to inspect the mysterious paper.

**GRAND OPENING**

You are invited to the grand opening of Sun of Eden

13th September 4pm onwards

Corner of High Street and Iris Parade 

Food and drink provided

The pastel green paper was soft between his fingers as he read the invitation excitedly. First a new neighbour, and now a small party! Thinking of what he might wear to the event (his green tartan collar would suit the occasion best, of course), Aziraphale almost missed the signs of blue ink seeping through the page. 

Turning the flyer over, he saw a scrawled out phone number with the message ‘Where did you get those muffins? I’m definitely going to need food help - Crowley’ attached underneath.

The bookseller quivered with anticipation. Lillian’s time to shine had finally come.

**. **

**. **

Crowley was well on the way to drowning his sorrows. As he necked another glass of scotch with alarming skill, a chime went off somewhere in the room.

**Unknown:** Lillian’s Cafe off of Jasmine Loop is the perfect caterer! - Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, racking my brains for poetry pepper can buy: SHAKESPEARE  
> me: i'll be fucked if i'm writing even one (1) shitty ass sonnet tho  
> john mulaney: "i ThiNk EmiLy DiCkiNsOn'S a LeSbiAn."  
> me: *heart eyes emoji*


	4. "Angel."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale DOES reply and Crowley continues to be a drama queen. We meet the illustrious Lillian. The Them thought Crowley's house was going to be a crematorium. They talk about ducks. Not in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teehee i don't have chapters saved up anymore WE'RE WRITING ON THE FLY FELLAS

Streams of sunlight filtered into the living room, leaving Crowley squinting as he woke from his drunken slumber. Last night had been _rough_ , but he could take a hint. Not so much as a ‘thanks for your number, here’s mine’ all day. They weren’t kids anymore, grown ups didn’t play hard to get. You either text back, or you don’t, and Aziraphale hadn’t.

It’s fine.

Crowley can re-restart his life somewhere new again, far away from the shame of putting on all his charm and being so _distinctly_ declined.

Because he’s _fine_.

But the worst part is, before he can go about changing his name and moving to Peru, he has to organise the damn grand opening.

What is it about hangovers that make every aspect of life that much more dismal? Probably the headache, and the nausea, and the parched mouth that made it feel like his tongue was glued to his soft palette. Perhaps the knowledge that he’d done this to himself, all because his neighbour hadn’t mystically professed his undying love at the sight of a wicker basket with a note in it, had something to do with this rotten feeling as well.

His alarm blared out from its hiding place somewhere in the room, making Crowley jolt in shock and fumble around for his missing glasses, because _that_ wasn’t going to be helping his pained eyes either.

Black lenses safely repositioned upon his nose, Crowley slumped out of his twisted position on the sofa and stumbled around looking for his phone. The crick in his neck made the whole ordeal more painful than it needed to be, but finally, after scattering cushions and nearly breaking a few more pots - victory. 

The display was wretchedly bright, even with his light protection, but what it showed was quite the opposite.

**Unknown:** Lillian’s Cafe off of Jasmine Loop is the perfect caterer! - Aziraphale

Crowley would have cried from relief if he wasn’t so dehydrated. At least one thing had gone right. He could go see the illustrious Lillian this afternoon when he didn’t feel like death on two legs.

Speaking of which, sleep was calling once again, and Crowley was in no position to argue.

‘thanks you’re an angel’ he typed out, completely unaware of how candid fatigue had made him, before collapsing back into the leather couch and dosing off once again.

Maybe if more of his faculties had been operational at the time, Crowley would have proof read the text before he sent it, or at least taken more time to press all the letters on the keyboard. Unfortunately for him, he had had perhaps one faculty working at that time, if we’re being generous, so he hadn’t.

**. **

**. **

Somewhere amongst the piles of writings on Aziraphale’s desk, a phone screen lit up.

**Crowley:** thanks ’angel

**. **

**. **

This was the second time Crowley had woken up that morning, but the first time it had stuck. He made some overly strong coffee that stripped the back of his throat with bitterness and chugged half a litre of orange juice straight from the carton, and felt infinitely better for it.

Now somewhat ready to face the world, he went about searching for his phone, again. The shop floor was in need of a sweep after all the tradesmen yesterday, and Crowley would be damned if he was going to do that in silence.

He was busy hoping that his music library hadn’t inexplicably erased everything except Queen’s Greatest Hits (which he’d only downloaded for a throwback party, anyway) _again_ , when he was stopped in his tracks by the notification waiting for him.

**Unknown:** You’re welcome! :)

_Huh?_

Crowley opened his phone and was immediately faced with the aftermath of his groggy and hungover attempt at basic communication.

_Oh shit._

Oh, God. Oh fuckety fucking _SHIT._

Once again, Crowley slumped back into the sofa, feeling rotten about the consequences of past-his actions. Except this time, instead of sleep, he was seriously considering looking up flights to South America.

**. **

**. **

Aziraphale was out for a walk, as he was partial to do on particularly nice days such as this one. He’d passed through the orchard and picked a few pears that were sure to make a nice salad later, and was on his way to sit by the brook and perhaps snack on one of the fruits of his labour, when a quartet of bicycle bells rang an offbeat tune in his ears.

“Aziraphale!” Adam called out, clearly very excited about something or other.

“Hello, Adam, Pepper, Brian, Wensleydale!”

“We’ve got something for you!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale racked his brains for anything he’d been waiting for at the post office, or something he’d leant one of their parents, or even something _he’d_ asked of their parents, but nothing came to mind. 

All of his unspoken questions were answered when young Brian extricated a crumpled green flyer from the small leather satchel slung across his body. Soft paper in a pastel mint shade touched Aziraphale’s finger tips once more, and he found himself smiling inexplicably at the familiar sensation.

“Mr Crowley is having a grand opening for his shop, so he’s asked us to hand these out to everyone so that people will come.”

“I did _not_ expect him to be a florist,” Pepper said. “Maybe a taxidermist, or a funeral director, but certainly _not_ a _florist_.”

“Maybe he’s a mafia boss and the shop is just a front for all his evil plas!” Adam added, eyes widening with intrigue.

Pepper frowned. “I thought the mafia was Italian. I don’t think you can get ginger Italians.”

“Actually,” Wensleydale piped up, “my mum says that plants have a very calming effect on people, so perhaps a florist is exactly what he should be.”

“If he’s like this now, imagine what he was like _before_ he got his shop…”

“ _YES_ , well…” While Aziraphale usually enjoyed watching these young imaginations at work, this time he felt the need to nip it in the bud. “Let’s not speculate too much. The poor man isn’t even here to defend himself!”

“Yeah. And, anyway, he can’t be that bad,” Brian mused. “He’s paying us ten pounds each just to ride around town.”

“Not _just_ to ride around, Brian! We’ve got a job to do!”

The Them began riding off down the road to complete their task of the day.

“Goodbye, Aziraphale,” Wensleydale said, and followed after his friends.

Aziraphale waved a farewell and then turned on his heels, heading back to his shop. Somehow, he figured he had much to think about after this eventful outing, as well as making a mental note to ask Anathema what _exactly_ was in those magazines she lent the children from time to time. 

**. **

**. **

One the way from the brook to his shop, was Lillian’s Cafe, and seeing that Aziraphale was only human, he stopped in to pick out something scrummy.

The bell above the door jingled as he entered, and a wall of warmth immediately hit him, returning full sensation to the fingertips that had felt the brunt of the English autumn chill. The cafe’s decor was a little daggy (not that Aziraphale could talk, really.) Salmon pink walls were accented by lace curtains and a unique doily at every well worn table. But no one came here for the furnishing. The reasons people came to the simply and aptly named ‘Lillian’s Cafe’ were positioned, pride of place, in a glass cabinet by the cash register.

Giving a quick smile to Abigail, who worked as a waitress on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, Aziraphale went about beginning to make a very important decision.

“Which one today…”

“Having just tasted ruddy _all_ of them,” a resounding voice came from behind him, “if you don’t pick the mini lemon meringue pie, I’m denouncing whatever sliver of friendship we have.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yelped, spinning on his heels to find himself face to face with man.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!”

“I gather you took my advice then,” the shorter man pushed on, pretending not to notice the pained face the other made in response to his own attempt at the cliched quip.

“You gather correctly. And very good advice it was too,” Crowley said, looking past him to the elderly woman exiting the kitchen. 

“Here you are, Mr Crowley,” she said, handing him a hand written receipt. “I’ll be round at three to drop everything off and help you set up.”

“That won’t be nec - oh!” Crowley’s decline was cut off by the sweet patting of Lillian’s wrinkled hand against his cheek. He’d very quickly come to learn that if Lillian of Lillian’s Cafe was offering help, you didn’t turn it down. And if you did, she helped anyway.

“Very good. See you then!” She called, swinging the kitchen door open and disappearing before Crowley could attempt a refusal again.

“Thank you, Lillian,” Crowley said helplessly.

Aziraphale sent a comforting smile his way before turning back to the sweet treats on offer.

“Well, if I want to salvage our delicate relationship, I suppose I _must_ have one of those delicious looking little lemon meringue pies, please, Abigail!”

With a nod, she took the tongs hanging beside the cabinet, and opened it up.

“Do you want one with a tiny macaron on top?”

“Oh, why not?”

“Even if you don’t have it, I’m sure Mr Crowley will,” she said, winking at the other man as she put the pie in a paper bag for safe keeping.

Crowley let out what could only be described as a high pitched gurgle.

“Right,” Aziraphale said awkwardly, handing over the change. “Have a good day!” And with that, he rushed out of the store, a cowering Crowley on his tail who looked back only once with an unreadable expression on his face.

Once out and in the slowly fading sunshine, Aziraphale huffed. 

“Well, I don’t know what she was thinking, pulling that while working. _Completely_ inappropriate. I may have to bring it up with Lillian at some point.”

“Mm,” Crowley hummed absently, scuffing his boots against the gravel surface of the parking lot.

“Oh, don’t,” Aziraphale implored. “Those boots are so lovely, take care of them.”

Crowley’s head whipped up to look at Aziraphale as a strong hand found its place on his upper arm. The hand retracted when Aziraphale noticed the acute reaction.

“Sorry.”

Crowley swallowed whatever sound was trying to make it’s way up and out of him after seeing Aziraphale’s self conscious expression.

“Walk home?” The taller man changed the subject, looking out onto the leafy street ahead.

“Wha - oh, yes! We can cut across the bridge, if you like. Might see some of the ducks.”

“Great. Shall we, then?”

And they did, occasionally remarking on the song of a bird, or the shape of a cloud. Aziraphale told Crowley that most of the ducks were practically tame at this point, so if he ever wanted to come down to the park and feed them when the weather was warmer, he was very welcome to. Crowley teased that they were tame _because_ people kept feeding them, and Aziraphale didn’t have a leg to stand on in his denial, being one of the main offenders.

**. **

**. **

Aziraphale _had_ offered Crowley the minuscule macaron on top of his lemon meringue pie, but the florist had turned it down, wishing the bookseller a pleasant evening and then escaping into the sanctuary that was his abode. Aziraphale couldn’t invade his senses in here. 

Except maybe with all the memories and images imprinted in his mind. 

Crowley internally slapped himself for the second time this week. The rate at which he was losing his grip was far outperforming the rate at which he could get it again, and it was becoming a real problem. All because a man touched his arm. All because a man offered to wear one of his cruddy old shirts and help paint his house. All because his _neighbour_ happened to have stupid fluffy whit-blonde hair and sparkling hazel eyes and the brightest smile he’d ever seen in his life. All because his _stupid_ neighbour was kind, and gentle, and generous, and thoughtful, and had absolutely nothing _stupid_ about him at all.

The ever growing predicament that was Aziraphale wasn’t going to leave his life anytime soon, so he bloody well better figure out how to deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "this isn't a filler chapter it's important set up this isn't a filler chapter it's important set up this isn't a filler chapter it's important set up" i chant to myself, as a post a filler chapter
> 
> n e way the party is up next, which is probably gonna be LONG  
> so maybe strap in for a little wait... but i'll do my best to have it done in the week i pwomise <3


	5. The Grand Opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gets a little tipsy and does their best to enjoy themselves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeeeee sorry this took so long but this is the longest chapter i've EVER written vbnghj enjoy dearies

When you’re standing in a garden, you’re in the moment, and it’ll never be like this again. The weather will change, the plants will grow, but for a while, you’re here, and so is everything else.

Crowley thought about this as he misted some Devil’s Ivy in the corner. His life was never going to be the same. His shop was opening - his first attempt at life away from the grungy space he’d carved out for himself in the cesspit that was London. No more answering calls from Lord B at two in the morning. No more smothering his own head with a pillow trying to drown out the cries of intoxicated youths out on wild Friday and Saturday nights. No more piss addled seats on the tube, or overly priced and overly sweetened drinks at bars with less space to move around in than the cavity between Hastur’s ears. God, _yes_. No more Ligur and Hastur.

“This alright with you, love?” Lillian called from the refreshments table she was almost done setting up on the far wall.

“Perfect. Thank you, Lillian.”

“I must say,” she said, strolling around the store taking in all of Crowley’s new stock, “some of these are _very_ nice. I might have to pop in and pick some out. Brighten up the cafe a bit.”

Crowley could think of many things that needed to happen to that place’s interior before an indoor plant would make any distinct difference to it’s ‘feel’, but he knew better than to voice his opinions on old ladies’ aesthetics.

“Have a nice friends and family discount, do we, Mr C?” She winked.

He glared. “Only for the very best.”

“Oh, you’re too sweet, Crowley!” She laughed. “Say, how much is this little one? He’s a darling.”

Crowley turned from inspecting the magnolias to see Lillian admiring his Ficus benjamina.

“Seventy pounds.”

“ _SEVENTY POUNDS?_ For this little thing?”

“ _This little thing_ is already over half a metre tall and trained into a lollipop shape. That’s taken a lot of time and effort, Lillian. I could charge more.”

“Well,” Lillian huffed, preening her imaginary feathers, “do you have anything more to my tastes?”

“The cheaper stuff is closer to the front,” he said, pointing out the little Elephant Ears, Zebra Plants, and various other animal and non-animal named flora.

The old woman positively growled. “You’re lucky you’re handsome, young man!”

A knock on the window saved Crowley from any further reprimanding, but the grotty face of Brian beaming into the shop while Wensleydale frantically waved from over his shoulder made Crowley second guess his gratitude.

**. **

**. **

Tadfield’s residents trickled in, and soon enough, a sizeable crowd was beginning to form in Son of Eden. So much so, in fact, that some people were opting to mingle outside in the street.

Crowley couldn’t help but feel an unfamiliar warmth in his chest over the turn out. He was aware of how much he stood out in this small town, all skinny jeans and leather and attitude, but they were welcoming him with open arms. He’d met the parents of those local children who seemed to have attached themselves to his hip despite his best moody efforts. Brian’s mother had even tried to give him the ten pounds back, saying he’d only spend it on sweets. 

That had rubbed him the wrong way slightly. So what if Brian wanted to buy sweets? He was, what? Twelve? Twelve year olds should be allowed to buy a lollipop if they bloody well want one.

Crowley had politely declined the money and said that it was Brian’s to spend on whatever he wanted. Brian had looked so happy at that, Crowley almost forgot to roll his eyes.

Old Mr Shadwell, a Scottish man with harmless if slightly archaic ideals, had come in carrying a case of beer, with Newt following him in, up to his glasses in bottles and cans. His wife Tracy, the flamboyant woman who ran the pub round the corner, had come over to shake his hand and say, “Welcome to Tadfield, love.” before scurrying over to scold her husband for pocketing some Guinness.

Things we going well. People were mingling happily, some had come up to introduce themselves or say hello again, Lillian’s food was going down like a house on fire. Crowley was happy. He assumed he was, at least. He wasn’t really well acquainted with the sensation. 

Things weren’t perfect, though, he thought, as he scanned the room for a recognisable mop of pale hair. Suddenly very anxious, Crowley pushed through the crowd, trying to get outside. Maybe he was outside talking to someone and hadn’t seen Crowley yet. He’d be here, surely.

About to step outside to check, Crowley was stopped by a finely manicured hand on his shoulder.

“Crowley, hi!” Anathema said. She had a lovely soft voice, Crowley thought. It would have been very calming if he weren’t already about to land himself in a tizz.

“Hello! Yes! What can I do for you?”

“Well, first of all, this place is lovely. Thank you so much for having us all around.”

Crowley forced a tight smile and nodded. 

_Please hurry up. Please hurry up. Please hurry up._

“We were wondering if their was a time we could come in to discuss floral decorations,” she continued, now gesturing back to Newton standing behind her, looking about as uncomfortable as Crowley felt.

“What on Earth would you need those for?”

Anathema’s brow creased slightly. “We’re getting married…”

Whoops! “Oh, right! Yes! Come round whenever. It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to be!” He laughed. “Except right now. Um. If you’ll excuse me.” And he practically ran out the door.

“Bye!” Newt called, and then took the champagne flute offered to him with his already raised hand.

Outside, Crowley was having equally pitiful amounts of luck searching for the man in question. Up and down the road were empty shops and houses. A small red dachshund was tied to a bicycle rail and happily cleaning itself while Adam sneaked it small pieces of sausage. Once again, there was no sign of Aziraphale.

Until there was.

The old mahogany door to the bookshop swung open, and out came a spritely looking Aziraphale in his trademark coat, but a different waistcoat and tie, Crowley noticed. The shorter man’s face lit up as there eyes met across the road, and he hurried over, quickly hiding the bottle he’d come out with behind his back.

“Crowley! I’m so sorry I’m late.”

Aziraphale was obviously playing the game of pretending neither of them knew that Crowley had seen the wine in his hand, and that it was going to be a wonderful surprise. The whole charade was disgustingly endearing, and Crowley hated with every fibre of his being that he felt that way.

“Anyway! Congratulations on your successful move to Tadfield. We’re all very lucky to have you.” And with that, alongside a beaming smile, Aziraphale presented him with a bottle of Penfolds shiraz. 

Crowley’s eyes widened at the sight. This was good wine - like, _really_ good wine - and Aziraphale had deemed his crumby little shop opening worthy of this?

“Aren’t you an ange- an… an, um, awesome… dude..?” Crowley took the bottle gingerly, and pointedly ignored the snort that came from Adam behind him.

“I’ve been saving it for a special occasion,” Aziraphale said, eyeing it wistfully. “Thought this one would do quite nicely.”

“Well, we’ll have to share it sometime.”

“Oh, no! Do whatever you like with it. Don’t feel like you have to include me,” is what the bookseller said, but his face told a whole other story.

“Who else am I going to drink it with? Adam?” 

“Yeah!” The boy yelled out.

“No!” They both yelled back.

Turning back to Aziraphale, Crowley lifted the bottle slightly. “I’m not really one for drinking alone,” he lied.

“Well, if you insist!”

The tapping of a glass ended their conversation, and a small but impressively loud chanting of “Speech!” came from inside.

“I think they might want you to make a speech.”

Crowley sighed as he looked back to the building full of people he didn’t know talking loudly and treading mud on his slate floor. He handed the bottle of red wine back to Aziraphale, who took it gently and held it close to his chest.

“Keep this safe for me, would you?”

He smiled softly in affirmation, so the man of the hour squared his shoulders and marched into the swarm.

Cheers and whistles followed him as he made his way to the centre of the room to find Tracy holding a glass of champagne for him. He climbed onto a chair and stared out into the sea of tipsy adults and children in the throngs of a sugar rush, all of whom had fixed their attention on him. He took a deep breath, and swallowed it with an audible gulp.

“Yes, well, um, thank you all for coming.” 

Cheers erupted again as everyone celebrated being acknowledged.

“You’ll find out that I’m not great with words pretty quick, so, um, just… yeah. This is a much better turn out than I was expecting, so you better all buy some damn flowers!”

The crowd let out more cheers, this time celebrating the brevity of his address, and everyone of legal drinking age (as well as a few who weren’t) drank to Crowley’s everlasting success, or something like that. Crowley had never understood toasts.

The raucous came to a stand still as the sound of a smashing glass cut through conversation, and was followed by a small voice that sounded a little like a boy named Brian’s saying, “Whoops.”

“I’ll get that for you, love,” Tracy said. She gently pushed people out of the way and called for a broom whilst telling the boy not to worry. 

No longer the man of the hour, Crowley jumped down and made a beeline to the man inspecting his stock and holding precious cargo.

“Well put,” Aziraphale said as he arrived, and Crowley scoffed.

“Liking what you see?” he asked.

“Oh, everything’s so beautiful,” was the reply, as Aziraphale brushed his fingers against the velvety petals of a burgundy rose.

Looking back on this moment later, he has absolutely no idea why he did it. Some strange bout of madness overtook him and left him without sense. But before he knew it, Crowley had taken a daffodil from it’s bucket, snapped the majority of it’s stem off, and promptly fitted it into the lapel of Aziraphale’s jacket.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale breathed out, while a faint blush began to paint his cheeks. “Thank you, Crowley.” 

The soft smile and poignant sparkle in his friend’s eye was absolutely captivating, and the fact that Crowley had caused this, and was the _recipient_ of this sweet look, made him absolutely weak at the knees. Crowley’s insides turned to jelly and he managed out a turbulent “Ngk.”

“Aw, isn’t that sweet!” Tracy cooed as she strutted over carrying a dust pan and broom. “You two are quite the picture. Just what our lovely Mr Aziraphale needs, isn’t it, Mr Shadwell,” she called over he shoulder to the man scowling in the corner. “Between us, he’s been keeping himself far too cooped up recently.”

“Have I?”

Crowley panicked. What the ever flying _FUCK_ had he been thinking? This was coming on _way_ too strong, even if Aziraphale did feel the same way, which he didn’t. And it was so public too. God, he’d probably embarrassed the poor man close to death! His brain clicked into damage control, a mode it was all too familiar with and knew all too well.

“Oh, no, not like that!” He projected his voice perhaps a little _too_ much, but Madame Tracy hadn’t been all that subtle either, and he needed to match it. “No, everyone gets one! A little… going away present… for when you go home. Yes! A reminder, of sorts… That I’m, um, here! And… with… flowers…”

That ending had been pitiful. He was getting rusty. But it seemed to work, based on the excited glimmer in Madame Tracy’s eye.

“Oh, Mr Crowley, that _is_ sweet!” she purred, playing with her dyed fire engine red hair. “What do you think would suit me?” she asked, twirling in her knee length chartreuse green dress.

Crowley considered her for a second. Everything about her clashed in the most complimentary way, from her choice in husband all the way down to her velvet and patent leather kitten heels. Only something as far out of the ordinary as he could manage would be a suitable fit.

If he was going to get away with this blatant lie, he was going to do it right.

“How about…” he scanned the walls of the room, covered in buckets and shelves of various flowers and foliage, “a sugarbush flower! Matches the shape of your dress, and the colour of your hair, kind of.”

“Plus I’m oh-so-sweet!”

“Yep.”

He took the woman over to his collection of various forms of the South African flower, leaving Aziraphale holding his daffodil close to his chest. Crowley had completely missed his crest fallen expression as the florist had gone on his tirade and gotten caught up in the storm of his own making. Not everyone had forgone this small detail, though. Not one set of eyes watching carefully in the crowd.

**. **

**. **

Aziraphale sat outside in the chilly autumn air nursing a glass of some overly sweet punch. Normally, he insisted that he never consumed anything simply for its effect - coffee for a caffeinated buzz or alcohol for… well… Life was to be experienced, and food and drink were part of that experience, and often experiences in and of themselves. Sustenance was not a means to an end for Aziraphale. At least, not usually.

Tonight, however, he was thoroughly enjoying the numbing effects of this sugary beverage. At the start of the night, he’d seen half a bottle of vodka poured into the bowl and indignantly sniffed at the idea of consuming such a thing. He was eating his words now.

Crowley seemed so utterly hot and cold. One minute, he’d been consistently the most attentive acquaintance Aziraphale had run in to in a very long time, even if he was occasionally short tempered and mumbled more than Aziraphale’s ageing ears appreciated. The daffodil had been such a tender gesture, he thought as he placed a hand over it again, and so completely out of the blue. He’d been caught so completely off guard that his face no doubt portrayed the great depth of his treasuring the moment.

That had been when it all went down hill. Crowley had seemed very uncomfortable all of a sudden and shifted his attention onto Madame Tracy. An easy escape from Aziraphale’s over reaction to a simple, innocent act. Someone quite some time ago had told Aziraphale that he was an open book, as easy to read as a toddler’s introduction to the alphabet. He supposed that must be true, now, and cursed his then colleague’s ability to pick out his candid nature so simply.

He was attempting to wade further into the wallowing waters when a tap on the shoulder pulled him back out into the brisk air.

“Mum’s taking me home soon,” Pepper said, completely unaware of the depths she’d rescued him from, “but I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Oh, of course! What can I do for you?” He smoothed out his now slightly crumpled jacket and sat straighter as the young girl came around to face him.

“You know lots of writers, right?”

“Oh, yes, a fair few,” he nodded.

“Poets?”

“Yes, those included.”

“Do they ever get made fun of for what they write?” She asked it so matter-of-factly, like a scientist stating a thoroughly proved hypothesis, that Aziraphale almost missed the real question staring him right in the face.

“Pepper, is someone teasing you?”

She sighed and sat at his feet, crossing her legs. “The boys found my poem for - they found my poem.”

“Were they cruel? I will talk to them myself if they were, that is _completely_ unacceptable behav - ”

“No! No, not really.” A thread had unravelled from her sweater, and she picked at it absently as she considered how to word her predicament. “They just wanted to know _why_ I was writing it, and, Aziraphale,” the girl looked him in the eyes, “I lied to you. It’s not for school.”

Aziraphale smiled. “A little white lie never hurt anyone.”

Pepper smiled back and then continued to terrorise the loose strand of wool. “I didn’t know what to say. I can’t tell them. It’s embarrassing and they’ll laugh.”

“You don’t know that.”

She looked at him dubiously. “I just don’t know what to do.”

The bookseller’s heart ached to see such a down trodden expression on the young girl’s face. She was usually so self assured and assertive, but being so far out of her comfort zone had rattled her, clearly.

“How about we come up with a reason for you to be writing?”

“Like what?”

His tipsy brain had absolutely no idea, but he wasn’t about to shake Pepper’s confidence, so he just smiled knowingly and said, “You just leave it up to me.”

Pepper’s mother came out with her coat folded in her arms. 

“Come on, honey.”

Pepper’s head whipped around, and as her pony tail bounced against her shoulder, Aziraphale noticed the sprig of fern sticking out of it.

“No flower for you?”

“Flowers are _girly,_ ” she said, returning her attention to the bookseller with a frown.

He looked down at the daffodil poking out of his lapel.

“Not necessarily.”

Pepper looked as well, and softened slightly.

“Well, they’re _traditionally_ girly.”

“And there’s nothing traditional about you, is there, Pepper?”

She shook her head proudly as her mother took her hand and guided her towards the direction home. Warm waves goodbye were shared all-round, and then Aziraphale was alone again. 

Rather think about what this blasted daffodil actually meant (which was probably, distressingly, not much), he chose the think about how his glass was nearly empty. He needed a refill. He’d need to get up and go inside to get that refill. Aziraphale found himself wondering if it was really worth it. He was very comfortable sitting in this fold-out garden chair on the curb.

A smattering of soft laughter trickled out of the open door to the shop, catching Aziraphale’s wavering attention. It sounded like most of the opening’s attendees had taken their leave for the evening, and only a handful of people were left inside.

Two of them, Madame Tracy and Mr Shadwell, exited in a flourish carrying boxes that had previously held the tipples of the evening.

“Oh, sorry, Mr Aziraphale!” Tracy said. “We thought everyone had gone!”

“Not to worry,” he said, manoeuvring himself into a standing position. “About time I cut myself off, I think!”

The fiery, red-headed woman winked and said, “See ya, Zira.”

Her husband grumbled, and that was that.

Aziraphale took his glass back inside, but stopped in the doorway at what he saw.

Over by the refreshment table was Crowley, but he wasn’t alone like he’d been expecting. Rather, over by the refreshment table were Crowley _and Abigail_. There heads were close together, and Abigail appeared to be whispering something to him. He was smiling slightly, and the sight made Aziraphale’s chest pang intangibly.

The young woman’s eyes met with Aziraphale’s, and she pulled away from Crowley with a knowing smirk. Confused, Crowley followed her gaze, and snapped upright at what he saw.

“Thanks so much for having us all,” she said, picking up the basket full of Lillian’s dirty dishes (a burgundy rose peaking out of the top of it, Aziraphale noticed.) “Bye, Tony.”

“Never call me that again!” Crowley called out after her as she left. She simply laughed, and sashayed away in her short, tight dress.

Aziraphale had never felt sick at the sight of her before, she was a fine looking young lady who took excellent care of herself, but his stomach was leaning that way tonight. It could also have been the overly saccharine spirits he’d consumed.

“Made a friend?” He asked tentatively.

“Of sorts,” Crowley replied, watching the door she’d just left through.

_Wonderful…_

“Need any help cleaning up?” Aziraphale needed the subject to change immediately. He could feel twinges of his rarely short temper beginning to awaken and neither Crowley nor Abigail deserved that.

“Nah, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Oh. Alright. Well, if you need any help tomorrow let me know…” He wavered as a million words rushed through his head, most of which he didn’t understand, the rest he chose not to. “Good night!”

“Uh, _WAIT!”_

The sudden rise in Crowley’s previously relaxed tone stopped him in his tracks.

“Y’know… the night’s still young…”

“Is it?”

“Yeah! It’s not that late! No reason why we couldn’t continue the party… Just the two of us.” 

Crowley had sauntered over to the one untouched item on the refreshment table: the bottle of shiraz. Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. He _had_ promised to share it. He hadn’t expected it to be so soon, but if the night was still young, as the man had put it…

“Just the two of us.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ur welcome for 3.5k words now i gotta disappear for another week and try and write realistic drunk people having never been more than tipsy let's gooooo


	6. Just the Two of Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is a horny drunk and Aziraphale almost falls down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for over 1000 hits! People's responses have been so encouraging, so here's more!

The bottle of Penfolds had disappeared embarrassingly quickly, during which time their conversation had migrated from general Tadfield gossip to “I want a waterbed, do people still have waterbeds?” and other such nonsense.

Aziraphale had mused that it was undoubtably possible to find one somehow. You could buy anything on the internet these days, he didn’t see why a waterbed would be any different.

“I don’t see the appeal myself,” Aziraphale slurred, practically squeezing the last drop of red out of the bottle. “What if it got a puncture? The whole room would be flooded, and bedrooms are often on the top floor, you’d have damp all through the ceiling!”

Crowley groaned, partly at Aziraphale’s pedantry, but mostly at the wine running out.

Aziraphale slammed the bottle onto the dining table they were sitting at, frightening the intoxicated Crowley slightly, and stood up.

He promptly sat down again as his head began to spin uncontrollably, but after he regained some form of steady vision, he attempted the move once again, this time a little slower.

“I say,” he burped, “this is entirely unsatisfactory.”

“What is?”

“Come back to mine.”

It took all of Crowley’s wits to not fall out of the chair he was perched on.

**. **

**. **

Aziraphale was on his knees, rummaging around in a cabinet in his kitchen, and Crowley was leaning against the door frame watching him. Watching his _arse_ in particular, but no one was asking so it didn’t really matter. It’s not like there was much else of the man for Crowley to look at. He was halfway inside the cupboard looking for another bottle of something-or-other.

Neither of the men were having a great deal of success in their escapades. Aziraphale could have sworn this was where he put it, but his current predicament seemed to be proving otherwise. And Crowley, well, he was struggling to see anything at this point. With the moon covered by cloud, the dim lighting in Aziraphale’s house, and his tinted glasses, it was the most he could do to not walk into a wall. He cursed his eyes for being so temperamental, and cursed the man who made them that way, and then remembered that these glasses weren’t actually superglued to his face and he could take them off, so he did.

“Aha!” Aziraphale cried, shuffling out of the cupboard he’d halfway climbed into. He hit his head on the way, prompting a hiss of sympathy from his friend, but managed to extricate himself the rest of the way without hitch.

He was brandishing two more bottles of wine, one white and one red. Crowley couldn’t understand the labels, but again, they looked old and expensive. He turned to Crowley with a mischievous grin, but his face dropped into one of complete shock almost immediately upon seeing his face.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I - I can see your face!”

Crowley’s brain short circuited. Oh, of _course_. Aziraphale had never seen his eyes. Aziraphale hadn’t known him before he needed to wear his glasses pretty much _constantly_. This really was the first time he’d be able to see his face, uninterrupted.

His face was unreadable. Crowley couldn’t for the life of him work out what Aziraphale was thinking, how he felt about this sudden reveal. Did he like it? Crowley knew he wasn’t _ugly_ , per se, but his visage wasn’t to everyone’s tastes. He was a bit too pointy in most places, completely covered in freckles in summer. His beak-like nose was slightly crooked nowadays, and ‘lanky’ would be a very kind way to describe his physique.

And here he was, caught in a stare down. He wasn’t going to let slip how self conscious he was, but Aziraphale didn’t seem like he was about to stop taking in the sight of him any time soon either.

Crowley coughed awkwardly.

“Right! Yes,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head slightly. “Off we go!”

The moment, whatever it was, was over. Crowley was being led to the back of the store, into a secluded area that would probably be described as a ‘reading nook’.

The couches were old and well worn. Areas of the upholstery were frayed to their last thread, and the ancient floral pattern was faded to the point where it was difficult to recognise as anything other than blotchy fabric. Books were piled onto some of the arms of the chairs, as well as on side tables and on the floor. The place wasn’t dusty, necessarily - Crowley got the impression that Aziraphale cared far too much about his books to let them fall into disrepair. Rather, the whole place had a very comfortable, well lived in feel.

He slipped his shoes off and curled up on the sofa, making grabby hands for a drink.

Aziraphale practically plopped into the seat opposite, and slid down slightly, making himself comfortable.

Had Crowley been in a more astute state, he would have been able to further appreciate Aziraphale in this relaxed condition. As it was, Crowley’s reptilian brain noticed that his thighs had spread out nicely, and that he hadn’t been handed a bottle yet.

“Aaangelllll…” he moaned.

“Oh, alright, alright,” Aziraphale huffed, and passed over the chardonnay.

“Nooo,” Crowley whined, “I want the red one.”

Aziraphale pouted. “But I want the red one.”

Crowley almost blanked at the sight of his moist lower lip jutting out, but had the peace of mind to stand his ground. Important things were being debated, after all.

“But I want the red one.”

“But _I_ want th- ”

“Let’s share it!” 

Aziraphale paused for a second, contemplating the proposition, before shrugging and shuffling over to sit next to Crowley.

“While we’re here,” he said, uncorking the bottle with the ease of an expert, “I need your help.”

“With what?” Crowley asked, taking the bottle from the other man’s grasp and taking a swig.

“Little Pepper,” Aziraphale answered, guiding the bottle back to him before Crowley could guzzle the whole lot. 

“Don’t let her boss you around, angel. She’s got to learn the natural order of things.”

“Boss? No, nothing like that. Why, has she been bossing you?”

“…No.”

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed, passing the bottle back, “she’s writing a poem for someone - don’t know who, so don’t ask!” (Crowley grumbled something about keeping secrets and knocked back another mouthful.) “But the boys won’t stop asking her questions about it, and she’s embarrassed.”

“Tell them to mind their own snobby little businesses, then.”

“Crowley, don’t be mean,” he scolded, taking the bottle back like a punishment. It seemed to work. The slender man curled up further, crossing his arms in a huff, but backed off.

“If they want to know, and she doesn’t want to tell them, what’s she gonna do? What has this got to do with _us?”_

“We’re _helping_ , Crowley. We’re coming up with an altern - other reason for her to be doing all this. One she can tell the boys.”

“What’s so exciting about poetry that they need to stick their noses in it, anyway?” Crowley grouched.

Aziraphale shrugged again, taking a gulp.

“Everyone’s written a poem, it’s not that weird,” he continued, stuck in his own little conversation for the time being.

Aziraphale was halfway through another gulp of merlot when a jolt ran through him suddenly, causing him to splutter. Crowley pulled himself out of his monologue to pat the man on the back.

“Serves you right, it was my turn!”

“No, it wasn’t me,” he coughed. “It was my hand. And then my mouth. They’re consp - working together against us.”

“Well I’m gonna have two swigs too, then!” Crowley announced, easing the bottle out of Aziraphale’s tight grip.

“Oh, lord! We’re descending into anarchy!”

Crowley laughed around the mouth of the bottle between sips. Aziraphale giggled.

“I’ve got it, though.”

“Got what?”

“The solution!”

“Oh, that was your realisation choking noise!”

The bookseller rolled his eyes and hit him playfully. Crowley ignored the zap he got where the hand had landed on his chest, and the alarming warmth travelling up his neck to his cheeks, in favour of taking another drink.

“They _haven’t_ written a poem before. _That’s_ why they’re so curious! So, what about a little… competition of sorts? For the town.”

“Tadfield’s very own poetry competition,” Crowley pondered. “What’s the prize?”

“Not sure yet,” Aziraphale admitted. “One thing at a time.”

“Well,” Crowley said sitting up straighter and raising the bottle of merlot, “I think it’s an excellent idea.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, reaching over for the other bottle of wine. “As good as any, I suppose.”

They clinked bottles, and began planning Tadfield’s Inaugural Poetry Competition.

**. **

**. **

“My point is,” Crowley slurred, “… what’s my point?”

It had long since passed an acceptable hour to go to bed, but the two of them were still drinking and scheming. Aziraphale had confiscated Crowley’s drink after he tried to sing ‘God Save The Queen’ and gurgle at the same time, so the florist was wandering around the shop, running his fingers along the spines of the countless titles on show, in an effort to busy his fidgety hands.

“I can’t remember the last time I was in a bookshop,” he mused as his eyes landed on a book about Greek Astronomy.

“You were here a few days ago.”

“Yeah, apart from that!” 

He opened to a page on the geocentric solar system and snorted at the diagram.

“What are you chortling about now?” Aziraphale said, waddling out from amongst the maze of shelves.

_“Chortling?”_

The bookseller fixed him with some sort of Look.

“Listen. I know it’s easy to say now we know it’s not true, but… thinking that the Earth is the centre of the solar system…”

“I imagine you’re not going to buy that book,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley shrugged and attempted the focus on the words on the page. Just as he’d expected, the words were almost impossible to catch as letters jumped around and reversed themselves. His brow furrowed in concentration, but he was tired, and drunk, and had only really picked the book out based on the colour and font of the title. He gave up.

“Nah…”

“Be a dear and put it back when you’re finished, then.” He smiled, big and bright, and returned to the dark cavern of the kitchen.

Crowley let out a breath he’d barely realised he was holding, and shoved the book back approximately where he’d found it. A nasty voice was attempting to remind him of his useless nature. Fourty-something years old and he still couldn’t read without giving himself a headache? Shameful. Surely what he should be feeling is _shame_. Why would a man, who loves reading so much that he owns a bloody _bookstore,_ be interested in someone like him? Not being able to read a kids book properly was the least of his sins.

The promising sound of clinking glass coming from the other room worked as a welcome distraction from this mental battery. Following the noises, Crowley’s now solely sock-cladded feet found themselves back on old linoleum, slowing at the sight in front of him. 

Inside his fuzzy brain, Crowley felt a clarity he hadn’t experienced since moving to Tadfield. The man in front of him was in full, glorious focus. He was flushed pink from the alcohol and central heating, with a soft little smile on his even pinker lips as he hummed some song Crowley didn’t recognise while rifling through his old liquor cabinet.

Crowley felt perfectly still, and also terribly fidgety. He could stand here and watch Aziraphale for the rest of his life, if he was allowed to, but his knees were failing him as he tried to paddle through his wine riddled mind and definitely needed to find somewhere to sit before his body forced him to in a rather embarrassing manner.

He chose the floor. Nice and close to his angel. He _was_ angelic. The lamp behind him sent a halo of golden light above his pale curls, and the tails of his coat splayed out behind him like sweet, relaxed wings. 

He was a heavenly body.

Always so patient with Crowley’s ever-changing moods, and with the children, and life in general, it always seemed. Never a cruel word to say, and like his very own walking conscience, he always made sure Crowley’s foot never made its way too far into his mouth. He was a sweet and gentle creature, and Crowley found himself struck with a carnal desire. He’d never had a sweet tooth, but he most certainly had a craving.

Aziraphale’s head returned from inside the cabinet with a gleeful grin. He was holding a decanter of golden liquid that looked shockingly expensive, and Crowley couldn’t wait to waste it on his lowly, drunken palette, but the darling twinkle in those hazel eyes stirred something deep within him that he had to deal with first - had to get out in the open.

Aziraphale was saying something now - something excited and giddy. His eyes were shining and he was gesticulating wildly with the bottle in his hand. Crowley had half the mind to take it off him for safe keeping, but he probably wouldn’t look after it any better. He was also far too preoccupied with making his tongue form the words he’s been so desperate to say all night, all day, all week.

“Can I touch your hair?”

That is…. Not what he had been planning to say. Damn traitorous, cowardly mouth.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s wild gesticulations stilled at the odd request, but his smile never wavered. “I don’t see why not!” And he leant forward, offering the top of his head.

Well, Crowley wasn’t about to say no.

It was about as soft as he’d imagined, not that Crowley _had_ imagined anything. It was just hard to think of anything about the other man that could be described as _coarse_ , so ‘soft’ was the natural alternative. His smile was soft, his eyes were soft, his demeanour was soft, and now his hair could be added to the list as well.

While there wasn’t much of it, it was wildly curly. The blanket of almost-white waves swallowed Crowley’s hand, never to be seen again, until he heard the unmistakable sound of liquid being poured.

His brain pulled away from the throngs of feathery sensation to see Aziraphale preparing two glasses of… scotch, it smelt like.

“One last tipple before bed.”

Crowley’s face betrayed his disappointment, but he could hardly argue with the logic.

“Before we drink me out of house and home!”

“And liver,” Crowley conceded, accepting the glass, as well as the hand up.

**. **

**. **

Back on the couch, the night was well on the way to winding down. Aziraphale had unfolded a blanket and draped it over Crowley’s sagging form, with the latter mumbling a quiet, “Thanks, angel” through a yawn. He stretched out only to curl back up again, hugging a pillow close. The bookseller watched his eyes flutter shut.

“Oh, my dear, don’t you want to get changed?”

“Mph,” Crowley replied.

“At least your - your trousers. Your jeans are very tight.”

“ ’S the idea.”

“I don’t want you lose feeling in your legs…”

A lock of red hair fell across the man’s closed eyes as his face screwed up and he wriggled. “ ‘M pretty resilient.”

Aziraphale sighed, brushing the strand off of his cheek and tucking it behind his ear, revealing an intricate snake tattoo in the process. He drew back his hand and regarded the artwork for a second before hearing the soft snoring of his companion.

Walking towards his bedroom, he hoped that Crowley would be comfortable on the couch in his clothes. He certainly hoped that the man hadn’t declined removing his trousers because he was worried about making Aziraphale uncomfortable. Quite on the contrary, Aziraphale thought. He’d quite like to see Crowley without his pants.

He began climbing the stairs as that last though finally landed. A bout of debilitating dizziness hit, leaving him clinging to the hand rail, and he wasn’t quite sure he could blame it on any of tonight’s alcohol.

_Oh, good lord._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my brain the whole time i've been writing this: *that picture of two grey kittens* two of them


	7. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's demons are chasing him and they're doing the naruto run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again at krispy kreams!

_Crowley was going to have to mark September down as a loss, at this rate. He hadn’t really planned on this many people coming, and he certainly hadn’t planned on giving every one of them a flower of their choice. Looking around at his now depleted stock, he knew tomorrow would bring another phone call to the supplier - fun times talking to clueless people with monotone voices and no concept of business or human interaction._

_At least the vast majority of his ‘guests’ had gone home now. Only a few more stragglers to sweep out with the dust bunnies._

_A hand on his shoulder interrupted his internal grumble._

_“Hi, Anthony!”_

_He turned to see the young woman from the cafe smiling at him._

_“Uh, hi, um…”_

_“Abigail.”_

_“Right. Yeah. I knew that!”_

_She laughed. “Sure you did. Don’t worry I won’t take it personally. Last time we met you were a little distracted.”_

_“Urgh, yeah. How do people have parties so often? I’ve just about had a heart attack the last couple of days with all the stress.”_

_“Oh,” Abigail, started, sounding more amused than sympathetic, “absolutely. But I wasn’t talking about that…”_

_Crowley frowned. “What were you talking about, then?”_

_She smiled, knowingly, and if Crowley wasn’t so confused he’d probably be scared._

_“I hate to be the one to break it to you, Mr Crowley, but it appears you’ might’ve fallen rather hard for our dear Mr Fell.”_

_“Wh - why would you think that?” Had he been too obvious? Probably, but not around other people, Crowley had thought. He’d only swayed his hips in his particular way, and teased, and smiled, and leant seductively inward, when they were in private - the few times that they were. It was always perfectly calculated to be just the right situation where if the other had decided to push him up against a wall and scold him for all his taunting… well, no one else would have had to know._

_At least, that had been the idea._

_Clearly not._

_He sighed. “If you’ve come to mock me, or tell me he’s straight, or whatever, save it til tomorrow. I’m trying to have a good night.”_

_Her face fell from that smug grin to something much more concerned, and she lay a comforting hand on his forearm._

_“No, oh my God, no! Tony… I was going to suggest I help you out.”_

_His head whipped up from where he had been attempting to thoroughly inspect the pattern on his faux-snake skin boots. He must have looked so utterly dumbfounded that she couldn’t hold in a barking laugh._

_“I’m sorry,” she tittered, “it’s really not that funny I promise. But the idea of Zira being straight…” She dissolved into a fit of giggles once again, leaving Crowley to watch on helplessly as he attempted to put all the pieces of their conversation together._

_“So, he’s not?”_

_“Honey, he’s gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.”_

_Crowley didn’t quite know how to compute that comment, but something told him it was good news._

_“So… I’m in with a chance?”_

_“Very much so,” she nodded emphatically, her mouth splitting into a shit eating grin. “Honestly, I knew our lot were hopeless, but you two are on another level!”_

_“…Oh! You’re… too!”_

_“I do love the ladies,” Abigail affirmed. She leant in closer to the florist and looked him dead in the eye, suddenly very serious. Crowley met her half way, now positioned as if they were discussing such sordid gossip that no other ear could possibly be made aware of it, lest the entire town be thrown into madness._

_“Just know,” she said, “if I get a girlfriend, out here in the middle of the countryside, before you two get your act together and bone,” (Crowley squeaked but she continued) “there will be hell to pay.”_

_He snorted._

_She hit him lightly on the arm, but laughed and smiled along._

_“I’m serious! No one should be able to look at someone like that, and no mortal man should be able to survive being looked at like that, but here we are!”_

_“How does he look at me?”_

_The utter affection, the pure unadulterated hope, poured into the question melted Abby on the spot. She smiled with a soft sigh and took the man’s hand into her own._

_“Like you got up on a stepladder and hung the bloody sky yourself, love.”_

_The grin that beamed from under Crowley’s sunglasses was blinding. What his facial muscles lacked in practice, they made up for in sincere effort, and the giddy excitement Crowley felt bubbling away was nothing if not earnest. Abigail beamed back, scrunching her nose and winking, and Crowley got the impression that whatever he himself felt, she shared in some capacity._

_That was comforting. If all of this ended up going pear shaped despite their best efforts, he would have someone to cry into chocolate fudge ice cream with._

_The light ring of the bell above the front door trickled into the room, but Crowley thought little of it. He was too busy mulling over the fact that someone who lived here, and knew Aziraphale, thoroughly believed that all of this was not unrequited. Anthony J. Crowley was in with a pretty good shot, as long as he didn’t mess it up in some spectacular way, which wasn’t off the cards quite yet, either._

_He was about to ask her more about what he should do, and how he should do it, when he noticed that he wasn’t the centre of Abigail’s attention anymore. Rather someone by the door was. Rather_ Aziraphale _was._

_“Thanks for having us all,” she said, stepping away to collect Lillian’s basket. She looked back at him with raised eyebrows, daring him to make some form of move now that they were alone, and walked out the door. “Bye, Tony.”_

** _._ **

** _._ **

_His eyes were covered by a vaseline lens. Everything about him, the room, and his companion, were warm and soft and comfortable, and he could feel something building up inside of him. It was undoubtably going to be extremely stupid, but that would be a problem for the future. For now, adrenaline coursed through his veins like cheap champagne. His fingers twitched, palms itching. It was coming alright, fast and deadly._

_“Can I touch your hair?”_

_The question hung in the air as Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Cheeks flushed, he stepped towards Crowley, not once breaking eye contact. Soon enough, after what felt like somewhere in between a century and a millisecond, he was there, in front of Crowley, almost touching him, chest to chest. Their breaths mingled in the small space still lingering between them, and Crowley could smell wine in the air, as well as something more tangy. Not sour or bitter, but sharp nonetheless._

_Finally, after a wait so long it left Crowley wondering if an end would ever come, Aziraphale replied._

_“Please.”_

This isn’t how it went.

_Crowley’s whole body trembled as he lifted a hand to the other man’s temple, all the while being watched with a calm, assuring gaze. He let out a shaky breath as his fingertips made contact with the pale blonde hair of his companion._

_Just as before, it was soft to the touch, so light it almost felt like nothing at all. But this time, the man’s reaction was all together different. A puff of air quietly escaped his nose as Crowley ran his fingers his curls, and his eyes closed peacefully. Crowley drew back slightly, dragging his nails against his scalp, and all of a sudden, nothing was the same._

_Two hands found their way suddenly to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the longer hair there, thumbs rubbing small circles into his jaw line._

_“My dear boy, I don’t think it’s at all fair for only one of us to be so indulgent,” is what Crowley heard through the haze of pleasurable pain as strands were tugged artfully, like puppeteer’s strings, pulling him closer._

_And before he was even able to gasp in surprise, a pair of pliant lips were attaching themselves to his own…_

But that’s not what happened at _ALL_.

Crowley woke with a start, rolling off of the couch as his shaky scruples woke him up from a dream that promised to be anything but soft and sweet. He wrestled with the blanket that had tangled around his limbs, before laying prostrate on the carpet, accepting defeat to the fabric.

“Was that you, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s familiar lilt called.

“NRGH!” 

“Oh dear,” the bookseller said, shuffling into the room wearing an _adorable_ set of plaid pyjamas and a bleary eyed expression. “I was just going to make some tea to go with my aspirin, if you were interested?”

_Sweet Jesus on a boat, yes._ Although, with what the morning had already brought to him, he could probably do with something stronger. That wasn’t generally acceptable behaviour this early in the day, however, so Crowley would have to make do with a pungent cup of tea. It was time to forgo any last appearances of stability and leave the bag in.

**. **

**. **

Aziraphale watched the long, bony man hunkered over his cup of tea. He’d cleared some space at his small dining table for them, and sitting across from the other man gave him a chance to really see him. 

The hungover, sleep addled blanket still covering both of their brains left them unguarded, as midmorning light seeped through the kitchen’s tartan curtains. Aziraphale thought, quite candidly in the privacy of his own mind, that he’d never seen Crowley so relaxed as he was right now. Usually the man was tense, brittle enough to snap at any moment. Either that, or so forcefully unperturbed that Aziraphale couldn’t help but imagine the maelstrom going on inside. Crowley always seemed to be caught in the eye of his own storm, determined to deny its existence, let alone access, to all others.

The man in question looked up from his mug of almost black liquid, catching him in the act of blatant observation. Aziraphale wouldn’t call it staring. Not quite yet, anyway. His inquisitive gaze was met with a weak glare that knocked him back for a second, before he realised that Crowley was sitting in direct line with the sun’s rays. Rather than a glare, it was an apologetic squint.

“Oh dear!” Aziraphale blurted, darting over to the countertop where the florist’s dark glasses had been left the night before.

Blocking the light with his body, he held out the desired spectacles. Basking in the sudden relief of shade, Crowley looked up at him, and Aziraphale got a proper look at the man’s eyes for the first time. Needless to say, they were… _captivating_.

While one eye was a bright green, like the grass in the fields out behind Tadfield, or the prehnite inlayed in one of Aziraphale’s most prized first editions, the other glowed a deep honey colour, with a pupil almost twice the size of its partner.

Aziraphale looked on in wonder, thinking that, yes, it was almost possible to see his own dumbfounded expression in the reflection of Crowley’s glistening gaze. He was beginning to count the golden yellow flecks in the right iris, when the glasses were snatched from his hand and placed quickly over the eyes he so desperately wanted to study forever.

Snapping back into reality, Aziraphale stumbled over an apology. 

“I’m so sorry! I should have closed the curtains! Or swapped places with you! Or remembered to give them back earlier! I - ”

“ ’S’fine,” Crowley cut him off, suddenly more withdrawn than he had been previously.

Aziraphale watched helplessly as the previously quiet yet confident man grew smaller and smaller in his seat, seemingly attempting to disappear from sight, or at least cease being the centre of attention.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

Crowley scoffed, and shuffled his mug between his hands awkwardly.

“Really,” Aziraphale continued, reclaiming the seat across from his miserable acquaintance. “Wensleydale has been wearing coke bottle lenses since he was eighteen months old. Newton is allergic to peanuts… I don’t cope very well with stress…”

He quietly implored his friend to look up from the table he was burning a hole into, and was met, after a moment that dragged on for an eternity, with a cautious glance.

“We all have our little quirks.”

Crowley forced a tight lipped smile.

“ _Apparently,_ eventually, I’ll be back to… you know… normal.”

“It’ll heal?”

“Nah. I’ll just get used to it. That’s all life is, isn’t it? Adapting.”

Aziraphale’s heart broke, very quietly, but the cracks ran deepl all the same. The eye of Crowley’s storm had shifted, if just for a moment, to include him, and the significance of this would not be taken for granted.

“For what it’s worth,” he began tentatively, acutely aware of the eggshells scattered around this conversation, “which I’m sure is very little, I like them.”

Thick dark eyebrows shot up the other man’s forehead, his mouth opening ever so slightly in silent surprise.

“I think they’re nice.”

“If you knew the story behind them, you wouldn’t.”

“Always so mysterious!”

He smiled, but he knew the conversation was over. Crowley was back to inspecting his now empty cup, and life amongst many a tormented artist had taught Aziraphale better than to prod a wound hastily sewn shut. If there was more to share, and Crowley wanted to share it, then he would be there to listen, but for now he forced himself to be content with the snippet of life he’d been given.

“More tea?”

“No,” Crowley said, pushing the mug away and standing up. “I should go… Thank you,” he paused and watched Aziraphale rise to meet him with an unreadable expression, as most of his were, “for the wine, and the lovely evening, and the tea, and uh… yeah. Thank you.”

And he was gone.

**. **

**. **

Crowley shut the front door behind him and slumped inside. He needed a shower, and breakfast. Then he needed to do stock take, then open up shop. And after all that, maybe he’d allow himself to think about what happened last night, as well as this morning. He needed time to properly unpack what Abigail had insinuated, as well as what his brain had conjured up for him.

That had been a rude awakening. He wasn’t going to forgive his subconscious for _that one_ for a while.

Stiff and exhausted, he surveyed the remaining stock on the shop floor. It was primarily potted plants now that he’d given away so many of his blooms, and he noticed that a few were looking a little worse for wear after the big night they’d had.

_If someone poured drink on to my plants_ , Crowley seethed internally, _I’m gonna -_

“Oh, Crowleyyyyyy!”

_Fuck._

_Found me already._

He inhaled quickly, attempting to summon some form of courage he knew wasn’t coming, before sauntering into the kitchen.

“Thought I smelt something funny when I came in!”

Sitting around the island counter were two very unwelcome reminders of a not so distant past he’d much rather forget.

“Still walking like a D-grade lingerie model, then?” Ligur sighed, looking him up and down.

“Still mad you haven’t got the tits for it?” Crowley sniped back, pulling a bowl and spoon out of the draw under the sink.

“How’s the eye?” Hastur leered from his position teetering on a barstool that was build much more for style than comfort. The man had a physique not much unlike Crowley’s, but while the florist had embraced the sex appeal his leith form and long legs had blessed him with, the other had always seemed uncomfortable in the amount space he took up in the world. Crowley automatically straightened and pulled his shoulders back at the sight of such poor posture.

“Dazzling, as you can see,” he said as he pulled the fridge door open, completely blocking Hastur’s sightline. “Now, to what do I owe this great displeasure?”

“Holiday’s over. Lord Beelzebub wants you back.”

He snorted as he poured milk into the bowl - about halfway up should do it.

“So desperate already! That must be a new record.”

“Well, you see, no one works their pretty little face like you do, Crowley.” Hastur’s smile did not reach his eyes. It never did. “Always the charmer.”

“I won’t be tempted with an offer to spruce up the offices. You’ll have to do better than that.”

In a cupboard above the oven, Crowley found a box of Frosties. It had been an impulse buy at the time, but now it was just what the doctor ordered.

“How ‘bout an offer like ‘We won’t ruin your sorry excuse for a life’? That sound like one you can refuse?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’ve been here, what? Seven days? What is there to ruin?”

“Nothing yet,” Hastur said. “But where were you this morning? We made all the effort of putting in a house call and you weren’t even here to greet us.”

“Fraternising already, ‘ey?” Ligur tutted. “That’s not like you, Creepy Crawly.”

Crowley took a big slurp of milky cereal to soothe the rising panic burning in his throat. They didn’t know where he’d been, or who with. They didn’t know anything about Tadfield, about The Them, or Madame Tracy’s Den Of Inequity, or Anathema and Newt’s wedding plans, or _Aziraphale._ They had nothing to use against him. Nothing.

Nothing, as Hastur had so ominously put, _yet_. 

Crowley hummed, pantomiming his consideration, tapping the spoon against his dramatically pouted lips. “Nah.”

“What?”

“Come back when you’ve got actual threats to play with. You’re wasting time and petrol, boys!”

“You left a lot of people high and dry, Crowley,” Hastur hissed, storming over, so close to his face that he could smell the gingivitis permeating from his sickening gob. “We’ve got a view _powerful_ individuals knocking at our door about the things you know.”

“You should probably change the locks,” Crowley said, swallowing another mouthful of cereal. He should, too, judging by how easily they seemed to have slipped in.

“I think you should probably be a little more careful about your movements from now on,” the lanky man said, “or you might find yourself caught up in your own personal storm of angry bees, so to speak.”

“And I think you,” Crowley said, rising up from his leaning position against the counter so that they were almost nose to nose, “should get your bad vibes out of my cornflakes.”

Hastur sneered, and stomped out of the house.

Ligur took his turn sizing Crowley up, although this time the attempt wasn’t quite as threatening, what with the man being almost a head shorter than him. Crowley could see his tattoo of a chameleon poking out from under his buzzcut hair.

“And what are your famous last words going to be, Master Ligur?”

The squat man laughed, before raising up onto his tiptoes to whisper into his ear, “You’re dick’s sideways, mate.”

Crowley recoiled, and watched the disgusting little man stroll out of his home like he owned the place.

Prick.

My _prick!_

Sure enough, he crotch looked frighteningly odd, as his packer had somehow shifted and manoeuvred itself into an extremely unflattering position. 

Sticking his hand down his pants to fix the unfortunate situation, he wondered if it had been like that all morning. Had Aziraphale seen it and been too polite to question it? Fucking hell, he’d already seen one fucked up part of Crowley’s body. Thinking there was another one might be a deal breaker.

So Crowley planned out his deeds for the day: finish his bowl of cereal before it gets too soggy, shower, brush his teeth (and floss. Hastur’s visit had gotten him all paranoid about his gum health), stock take, open up shop, and figure out how to calmly and quietly inform the entire village that, while there was absolutely no reason to worry, they should also, maybe, fear for their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the condition crowley has is anisocoria, if you're wondering! It's the condition that David Bowie had, and can be caused by eye and brain trauma ... :^)  
> also he's trans af bc i am and sir, that's my emotional support demon
> 
> okay, peace out! til next time!


	8. A Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt and Anathema do some Deduction, call centres are hell on Earth, and Crowley makes a booboo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omgggggg i'm so sorry this took forever to put up  
> it's been written for days but life got busy i'm sorryyyyyy

Aziraphale had just finished pulling himself and his shop together when he heard two familiar voices outside. It appeared that Newton and Anathema were on time to pick up their special order, even if the bookseller wasn’t. He nodded at Newt’s smiling face peeping through the window and went to flick the latch on the door.

“Come in! Come in! So sorry I’m running late!”

“You’re not, we’re early,” Anathema said, marching in with the sense of purpose she carried everywhere. It was both admirable and unnerving, Aziraphale thought. She always had the calm demeanour of someone who knew what was coming. Of course, she didn’t, because that was impossible. Divination was for the likes of Madame Tracy’s gullible Thursday afternoon clientele, not a level headed young woman such as Anathema.

“I hope that’s okay,” her fiancé smiled apologetically. The couple were very much the yin to each other’s yang, having such assertive and mellow personalities mixing together. They evened each other out somewhat, and most importantly, made each other happy.

“Of course, of course. Lot’s to do today, I imagine. The big day’s getting close!”

Newton pulled an exaggerated fretful face, drawing a laugh out of the tense shop owner. Anathema simply hummed in agreement, making her way over to the sales counter and placing her hefty binder and clipboard on top of it.

“Right, so, yes,” Aziraphale dashed over to meet her. He pulled their package out from under the desk and placed by her other belongings. Inside the small, flat cardboard box, would be a blank book. It had been ordered months ago to be handmade in Newcastle from the finest local leather and paper stock, and Aziraphale was almost beside himself with excitement to finally see it up close.

Anathema pulled a chequebook out of her binder, but the salesman quickly put a stop to it.

“Don’t do anything of the sort! This is my wedding present for you both. I hope you’ll be very happy, and that the guests write messages worthy of being bound up in this beauty!”

“Oh, Aziraphale!” Anathema cooed. “Thank you so much!”

She skipped around the counter and enveloped him in a tight hug that took him completely by surprise.

“My pleasure, dear,” he said, patting her gently on the back. It seemed that enthusiastically embracing Mr Fell was coming into fashion in Tadfield, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

“Speaking of love,” she said, pulling away but keeping a firm hold of his shoulders, “I couldn’t help but notice a certain florist exiting your shop a little while ago…”

Aziraphale suddenly felt very warm and very trapped in her grasp.

“… In the same clothes he wore last night…”

“Mm. Perhaps all his belongings haven’t made their way up from London yet!” Aziraphale babbled desperately. “Terrible trouble, moving is. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Didn’t he give you a lovely daffodil last night, as well?”

Yes, thought Aziraphale. Even in his drunken stupor he'd had the peace of mind to remove it from his lapel before crumpling into bed. He was currently deciding which books to use to press it.

“He - he gave everyone flowers…”

“But you were the first!”

“He was also walking pretty funny when he crossed the road,” Newton piped up, much more engaged in this conversation than the one about wedding planning.

Aziraphale was _not_ enjoying this conversation, however.

“Ah, I think you’ll find,” Aziraphale managed to choke out, “he always walks a little funny.”

Newt laughed.

“And I don’t like what you’re both insinuating! We did nothing of that sort!”

“What _did_ you do, then?”

“No one likes a busy body, Ms Device,” he said primly, and attempted to distract himself from the lewd direction of their previously pleasant chat by sorting the cash in his till.

“Alright, I’m sor - ”

“But if you _must_ know, we drank some wine, and talked about whatever came to mind, and then he slept on the couch whilst I slept in my room. _Perfectly respectable_.”

“That sounds like our first date, actually,” Newton announced in the silence that followed Aziraphale’s tirade.

“Does it?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, not the sleeping on the couch bit, and I think we both had beers, and we did it at the pub not in a bookshop that one of us owned, so actually it was pretty different, come to think of it.”

“We just want _you_ to be happy,” Anathema interrupted, obviously sorry for making him uncomfortable.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. It had been a long time since someone had enquired into his well-being past a casual “A’ight?” in passing, so he’d had no need, nor had he had the desire, to contemplate his state of mind in quite a while. Accessing the deeper recesses of his mind tended to dig up unpleasant memories, so he did his best to avoid it, if at all possible.

“Wh - what makes you think I’m not happy?”

“It’s just,” the woman began, aware of how delicate the conversation had become, “the whole time I’ve been living here, you’ve never had anyone… special.”

“Anathema, everyone in Tadfield is special to me, you know that.”

“I _do_ know,” she sighed. “And we’re all so lucky to have you, with _all_ the things you do for us, but there’s a certain form of… companionship that… well, I think it’s nice to have.” She took her fiancé’s hand and smiled. “If you have the chance at this _specific_ form of happiness… Just know that we’re all behind you.”

“Cheering you on!” Newt added. 

Anathema nodded. “Exactly.”

“I - ” He could feel the prickle of tears beginning to form in his eyes. He was so blessed to be surrounded by the wonderful people who lived in this little town, and the couple standing in front of him had grown to be some of his dearest friends (because of course he couldn’t have favourites, but if you got him drunk and emotional enough, you might be able to hear him confess as such in private.) Bless both their hearts, and bless their future together. Aziraphale couldn’t think of two more lovely, deserving people.

“Thank you.”

They smiled at him through their own wet gazes. Anathema hugged him again, this time more gently, like he could break, or she was putting him back together. Aziraphale couldn’t decide which one he needed more.

“Give us a call if you need anything,” she said, wiping what threatened to be a tear drop from the corner of his eye.

A kiss on the cheek was her goodbye, while Newton left with a small wave. Aziraphale found himself too dumbstruck to wave back, but hoped a smile would suffice. 

**. **

**. **

Crowley had grown accustomed to being the common denominator of tragedies. He had grown accustomed to a great number of things during his time in London. Unfortunately, ‘accustomed’ had never expanded in his vocabulary to mean ‘indifferent’. 

He’d been shaking so much after the demons left - now that he was free to actually _feel_ things as opposed to hiding them under a thick veneer of scorn - that he’d dropped his bowl. It had shattered on impact with the tiles in his kitchen, and then he’d cut his hand trying to clean it up. He’d dripped blood on the carpeted stairs as he ran up to the bathroom to find a bandage (which he didn’t, because he hadn’t been living here long enough to collect a first aid basket), and had to blot it with toilet paper. 

The dead plants were beyond salvation as well. Inspecting them further confirmed his suspicions: something other than water had been poured on them, judging by the smell and sticky residue on the leaves. So, they would have to go, and that _hurt_. 

He never liked giving up on a plant. He always gave them far too many chances - coaxed them out of wilting, or supported them through a period of leaf spotting. From the outside it may have been viewed as shouting at inanimate objects to do things such as ‘ _GROW BETTER!’_ , but he did it because he _cared_. He cared a _lot_ , too much, even, and all that doting energy had to be released somehow.

He always grew attached to things much too quickly. An old friend had joked that he was like a duckling, imprinting on anything that spent more than half an hour in his line of sight and wasn’t cruel to him. Crowley had told the guy to shut up, but he was right. Ever since he was a child, Crowley had been starving for any form of affection, sense of belonging, he could find, and like a man on the brink of starvation, it often meant he consumed the most rotten things without even realising it.

It was some form of sick dramatic irony, or sadistic twist of fate, then, that what he’d once clung to like a leech to a bulbous vein, was now refusing to let go. 

And how dreadfully fitting, he thought, in the true sense of the word ‘dreadful’, that it would be innocent bystanders who felt the brunt of hell’s wrath.

He almost considered leaving, as he hauled the bin bag full of broken and dead belongings out to his bins. He almost considered returning to the world he knew so well, and leaving these people to their innocent lives of domesticity and sweet naivety. They’d be none the wiser, and wouldn’t miss him. No one ever actually _missed_ Anthony Crowley, only what they could get from him, or what he could do.

The demons would take him back with open arms, and then promptly stab him in the back, just like all the other times. He’d fit right back in to their messy structure. He’d tempt people into their awful ways, always leaving out the fine print of selling your soul to the alliance. The culture of double crossing would drive him to paranoia again, and he’d try to escape again. His life would return to its never ending cycle of misery, as it was destined to be.

Dumping his rubbish, Crowley thought about going back. He thought about it… but then the second-rate elevator music coming from his phone that had been scoring this internal debate stopped abruptly, and switched to the voice of a very tired woman.

_“ ‘The Garden’ Floristry and Plant Supplies: for all your floristry and gardening needs. Thank you for holding.”_

“Christ! Finally!” 

_“Yes, sir. How may I help you?”_

“I need to make an order.”

_“Yes, sir, I would assume so.”_

“Didn’t know I could get my sarcasm needs filled here too,” Crowley muttered into speaker phone. It wasn’t even lunch time, and he was on his last nerve.

_“Have you been with us before?”_

“Yes.”

_“Excellent. Welcome back.”_

His eyes strained as they threatened to roll out of his head.

_“Name?”_

As Crowley’s eyeballs returned to a more natural position in their sockets, they spied a certain fair-haired bookseller exiting his shop. Aziraphale waved joyfully in Crowley’s direction. Crowley waved back, but lacked the sunny disposition.

“Anthony Crowley,” he said, as his neighbour crossed the street towards him.

_“Right. How do you spell Anthony?”_

“The… the way you spell it!”

_“And how about ‘Crowley’?”_

He sighed. “Crow, like the bird you don’t want to see too many of…”

_“Mm-hmm?”_

“L, E, Y.”

_“Okay. You don’t appear to be on our database, sir.”_

Crowley jumped off his last nerve, and plunged into the boiling hot pit of misplaced rage sitting right below it.

“Are you _KIDDING ME_?”

“What’s going on here?” Aziraphale asked, seemingly brimming with unabated hope and love for the truly despicable world they lived in.

How he managed it, Crowley would never know. 

“You delivered to me _YESTERDAY!_ How did you mange to lose my details in a _DAY?”_

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, placing a hand that probably meant to be calming on Crowley’s shoulder, “whatever’s going on, I’m sure we can figure it out in a nice, civil - ”

“I’m being perfectly fucking civil,” Crowley spat, now coiled up tighter than a spring. “It’s these _utter BUFFOONS_ who wouldn’t know - ”

“Crowley, please - ” 

“This young man giving you trouble?” An unfamiliar and irritatingly haughty voice interrupted.

“No,” both Aziraphale and Crowley said, the former apologetic, the latter almost growling.

“ _Yes_ ,” came the voice from the phone who had been quiet throughout the onslaught. Or maybe she hadn’t been. Crowley hadn’t been listening and was too loud for a small phone microphone to compete with, anyway.

Something inside Crowley snapped, again. “Oh, piss off!” he yelled, and dropped his phone onto the pavement, effectively ending the call.

“There’s no need for that kind of language,” Aziraphale reprimanded primly, adjusting his waistcoat as if being in the presence of such deplorable language had creased the beige velvet.

“That was directed at you, too,” Crowley said, but as soon as it escaped his sordid mouth he wished it hadn’t.

His friend, acquaintance, neighbour, _whatever_ Aziraphale had been before the slating, looked at him with large hazel eyes and a subtly trembling lip, and every ounce of rage drained from Crowley back into his personal cesspit, but it was too late.

“Didn’t I say he’d be a troublemaker?” the stranger announced, almost proudly.

Crowley managed to pull his pleadingly regretful eyes (that Aziraphale couldn’t even see, anyway, on account of these _bloody glasses_ ) away from their rapidly dissolving relationship, to glower at whatever sticky beak had stuck their nose into an already grim situation. One look later, hedecided that he despised this man and his sneering, self important stance.

“Who are you?”

“R.P. Tyler. Neighbourhood watch.”

“Go watch a different neighbourhood, would you?”

“ _Young man_ , I think…” R.P. paused, re-evaluated, sniffed prissily, and dragged his poor dachshund away.

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, ready to apologise, to tell him everything that had happened today, and how it wasn’t his fault, and that, actually, he was probably the one person on this godforsaken planet that he would never want to have ‘piss off’.

But the man was gone.

The downtrodden florist was standing in a very empty street, feeling much more alone than he could currently fathom. He picked up his phone from its sorry place on the concrete, and somehow, it wasn’t cracked. Not even a scratch - at least, not any that hadn’t been there before.

Silver linings, Crowley thought. Small miracles. It was always the wishes you didn’t make that came true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me! life is gonna be busy for a little while longer, but hopefully we can jump back to the previous schedule of once a week-ish soon!
> 
> much love xx


	9. Liquid Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is Really Sorry and Aziraphale is the bitchy little angel we know and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is shorter than i first envisioned, and i'm not perfectly happy with all of it, but life has not calmed down and actually gotten crazier since the last update dfghjk
> 
> i didn't want to leave this abandoned for too long, so here is this. i hope you enjoy.

“Oh, piss off!”

“There’s no need for that kind of language.”

“That was directed at you, too!”

“Didn’t I say he’d be a trouble maker?”

Mr Tyler had never actually said anything of the sort, but Aziraphale was currently too miffed to care. He was well acquainted with the moody whims of dark and mysterious types, and had no interest in being made the punching bag for Crowley’s temperamental outbreak. When the man managed to restore some sense of composure, perhaps they could continue planning the poetry competition together, or even have a simple civil conversation. Until Mr Crowley could remember his manners, however, Aziraphale was perfectly happy continuing on his own.

**. **

**. **

He couldn’t be certain, but Crowley was pretty sure this wasn’t what had happened to Taylor Swift before she was lying on the cold hard ground. He was probably much better suited to being the bad guy in the song, as per usual, but here he was anyway - face down on the carpet in his bedroom contemplating every despicable thing he’d ever done, and why the universe had decided to tease him with promises of love and happiness, only to hit him in the face with the cricket bat that was karma.

Why had be been so fucking _rude?_

It wasn’t that phone operator’s fault the company was incompetent. They’d actually fixed the problem once he’d gathered to nerve to call them back (who the hell hears ‘Crowley’ and types in ‘Cowwley’? Infuriating.) It certainly wasn’t _Aziraphale’s_ fault _._ He’d only tried to help, to shine a bright and jolly light on the situation. Why did Crowley always let himself get so caught up in everything?

He’d always been excellent at sabotage. The Demons loved him for it. No surprise, then, really, that he was wonderfully capable of directing that energy inwards, as well.

How do you fix something like this? Apologising, probably. Crowley hated apologising. It wasn’t so much that he disliked admitting he was wrong, more that he resented the amount of power over him it gave the other person. Aziraphale would never do anything like that, of course. He was far too Good and Proper, but still… 

It was a paralysing fear of rejection, Crowley realised. He could lay every inch of his heart on the table, and the man could simply refuse it, decide he didn’t forgive him.

It would be fair enough, Crowley thought. They hadn’t known each other a week and he was already unleashing his ugliest personality traits on the poor man. They were barely _friends_ , amicable acquaintances. People Crowley had worked and lived with for years wouldn’t put up with this shit, there was absolutely no reason for Aziraphale to.

He groaned inwardly as he scrolled through the contacts on his irritatingly intact phone and pressed ‘Call’.

“I’ve had the worst week. I need tequila.”

_“It’s Tuesday!”_

“And?”

_“And it’s barely passed lunchtime!”_

“If I wanted to know all this, Abigail, I could look at my watch. Do you wanna come over and get sloshed or not?”

She paused for a moment, and Crowley found himself praying to something or someone that he wasn’t about to be rejected _again._

_“…I’ll be over in a minute.”_

**. **

**. **

“Oh, Anthony…”

He had made himself more presentable in the time between hanging up and hearing Abigail arrive - as in he’d turned himself over to face the ceiling. Quiet contemplation was a much better look than a puddle of existential dread and self loathing.

“Are we friends?” he asked, not daring to look at the woman as she entered his sparsely decorated room and sat beside him.

“Of course,” she said, voice overly soft and careful. The tone made Crowley wince. He supposed he was quite a pitiful sight.

“What’s up?”

He sighed. The ceiling was up, past that the sky, then the infinite vacuum of space. His hopes had been up. The future had been looking up. After the morning he’d had, nothing was up. Nothing at all. And everything.

“I’m rude. And cruel. And bitter.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“You think wrong then.”

Abby snorted. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Tones, but I’m a woman.”

Crowley frowned at her, utterly perplexed. Of course he’d noticed she was a woman, it was hardly something someone could miss. What did that have to do with his session of self pity?

“Which means I’m always right.”

“Ah,” he sat up and leant against the bed frame. “If that was true, the world would be a much better place.”

“It’s not our fault you lot never listen to us!”

“No, no!” Crowley griped. “Don’t rope me in with _men!”_

She laughed at his disgusted face and small ‘Yeurgh!’

“Fair enough.”

They shared a small smile before Abigail stood again.

“Where are your drinkies?”

“Cupboard above the microwave.”

“Excellent.”

And then she was back downstairs, clattering around in his kitchen in a way that he probably should have been concerned about. He couldn’t find the energy, though. It was all being taken up smiling dopily at the wall while he listened to sounds of life in his house. It was such a novel concept, but it lit up his chest nonetheless.

Anthony J. Crowley owned a cottage in the countryside. Anthony J. Crowley ran a small family-friendly business. Anthony J. Crowley had a friend who cared about his wellbeing and wasn’t only sticking around for personal gain.

Anthony J. Crowley had almost had a beautiful golden haired love interest in the hideous horror film that was his life, but he’d managed to screw that up in a few words, so for now the positives in his life were made up of Abby and her ‘drinkies’.

Crowley’s dopey grin had melted into a soggy scowl by the time the girl jogged back up the stairs.

“Come on, now,” she tutted, and wrapped his hands around a warm mug.

“Why would you heat up tequila?”

“I didn’t. It’s tea, you nonce!”

He stared down into the brown liquid dubiously, but could see the young woman watching him cautiously from the corner of his eye. She would risk a quick glance, and then hide the action behind a sip of scorching liquid, only to repeat the whole ordeal again.

Finally someone summoned up the courage to break the silence.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Crowley sighed. There wasn’t much to talk about. He was rude and cruel and bitter, even if Abigail didn’t see that yet, and was thoroughly unworthy of the love he almost managed to earn.

“I fucked up. Again. Like I always do.”

She didn’t speak, just sipped her tea and left him space to form the words in accompanied peace.

“I yelled at Aziraphale. He didn’t deserve it, because of course he doesn’t, he’s an angel, and I’m an actual, literal _Demon_ who shouldn’t dirty his doorstep. But I’m greedy and selfish, so I’ll keep coming back until he forces me away because I have _no_ self control and I’m a glutton for punishment.”

Abigail swallowed slowly, contemplating Crowley’s lament.

“What did you say?”

“Don’t make me relive it like some shitty therapy session!”

“No! What did you say to him?”

“I told him to piss off,” Crowley said through gritted teeth.

She barked out a laugh, placing her mug on the carpet before she could spill anything with jerky, giggle fuelled movements.

“Oh, honey, don’t even worry about it!”

Crowley’s face must have matched his perturbed state of mind, because she sobered with a quick clear of her throat, and turned to him with a much more serious posture.

“I know you think the god-given sun shines out of that man’s arse, but he can be a total bitch sometimes. He’ll be mad at you for a couple of days, tops, and then it’ll be like nothing ever happened. Honestly.”

“… I don’t think the _sun_ shines out of his _arse!”_

“But you do like his arse.”

“Of course I do! Everyone with eyes does! Don’t you?”

Abby scrunched up her face.

“Bit attached to a man for my tastes.”

Milky tea sprayed everywhere as Crowley failed to contain a snort of laughter. His nostrils burned and he mourned the previously spotless carpet, but a little seed of hope had germinated in the sodden earth of his heart once more.

“A bitch?”

She nodded overly enthusiastically. “One time, a tourist came in asking for a copy of 50 Shades of Grey, and he told them that they were in the wrong shop, he sold _books.”_

The florist rolled his eyes from behind his dark glasses and grinned roguishly.

“Serves them right. If you’re gonna be into kinky shit, at least have some taste about it.”

The young woman scoffed dramatically. “You’re as bad as each other!” She laughed lovingly before nudging his mug with her own and raising her eyebrows defiantly. “Now, drink your liquid courage and go be a man about this.”

Crowley took a gulp of the now lukewarm tea, tasting it properly for the first time in all its sweet, milky glory.

“You really haven’t spiked this, have you?”

“How many times do I have to say, it’s _LUNCH TIME!”_

** _._ **

** _._ **

“Do you really think this will work?” Pepper asked dubiously. “I didn’t want the whole town to get involved, I just wanted them to leave me alone about it.”

Aziraphale granted that, in the sober light of day, this plan was a little over the top. He had set his heart on the quaint idea now, though. If not for Pepper, then for himself and the town.

“No one else is getting involved in your personal… project,” he assured her, still skirting around what they both knew to be the truth of her literary escapade. “Your interest has just inspired me! Lots of places have writing competitions! Why shouldn’t Tadfield?”

“I guess so…” Pepper mulled. She perked up quickly, however, when she spotted a huge gaping hole in Aziraphale’s scheme.

“You’re not going to get anywhere with it by just talking, though!”

“Oh?”

“You need posters! And flyers to send around like Mr Crowley did! If Tadfield is going to have a poetry contest, then _everyone_ is going to be involved.”

The bookseller blinked slowly. Thank god she’d gotten onboard, and moreover _enthusiastically._ Not for the first time, Aziraphale was astounded by Pepper’s worldly ambition and capability.

“Goodness. I’m not sure I could manage all that myself. I never was very artistically talented.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ve got me!” she announced, and she was certainly right about that.

**. **

**. **

As Crowley made his way out into the mid-afternoon sunshine, he saw Aziraphale fussing around the Them as they got more paint on each other than the poster board laid out on the footpath. Brian seemed to be the most covered, unsurprisingly, with Adam in a close second, but Crowley was left gawking when the bookseller turned his head in the florist’s direction and revealed a splodge of blue paint swiped across his cheek.

Crowley reminded himself of the task at hand and attempted to avoid swooning at the frankly adorable sight. He had mostly achieved his goal by the time he arrived across the road.

“What’s going on here?”

“Aziraphale’s having a poetry contest, but no one will enter if we don’t make posters,” Adam replied, opening a marker pen and drawing a large P on a fresh piece of paper. “There’s no point have a competition if no one enters.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale said. “And what can we help you with, Mr Crowley?”

Back on ‘Mr’ basis now? Ouch. 

Still, Crowley thought, it might actually be better to sort this all out in front of the kids. It’ll stop them from letting anything get too out of hand. Not that that would happen, of course. Aziraphale is a sensible man and Crowley is too smitten to do anything other than let him get his way.

…Self awareness is good.

“Uhm…”

Now would be an excellent time to say ‘sorry’ and move forward, just like he’d planned and rehearsed. Nothing stopping him now…

“Need any help?”

_What was it with his mouth and refusing to say what he wanted?_

Aziraphale squinted slightly as he eyed Crowley pointedly, apparently weighing up all his options. Crowley once again attempted to remain calm, upright, and put together. He once again succeeded, barely.

“If you think you can manage,” is all Aziraphale said before turning back to the kids and lamenting the state of their clothes.

Rather than let that sting the way it threatened to, Crowley took it as a challenge. If he’s going to make a poster, he’s going to make the best bloody poster Tadfield has ever seen.

He very quickly found out that it was very hard to make a neat and tidy poster design with kid’s poster paint and washable markers. The other four had the advantage of being actual children who were used to working with these infuriating materials, but it’d been at least thirty years since Crowley had embarked on any form of arts and crafts other than rudimentary origami way back when it was fashionable to be able to make a paper crane. This was all a bit more of a rude reawakening rather than a trip down memory lane, and it showed in his un-masterful piece. He eventually gave up on paint altogether, sticking to the fairly familiar territory of pens.

While the posters were, once finished, differing in levels of skill and success, they did all fulfil the intended function of alerting Tadfield’s residents to their opportunity of wordsmith glory.

_TADFIELD’S FIRST EVER POETRY COMPETITION!!!_

_Give Aziraphale your best poem for a chance to win a SUPER BIG AWESOME PRIZE_

_Winner will be announced on September 30th at A.Z. Fell & Co. !_

Aziraphale sent the kids on their way, thanking them for their help and reminding them to apologise to their parents for the dreadful state of their clothes. Once high pitched laughter and the ringing of bicycle bells had faded into the distance, the air fell still. It was much quieter now, without Pepper’s reprimanding, Wensleydale’s corrections, Brian’s rumbling stomach, and Adam’s borderline bossy behaviour. It brought a welcome peace, but it also meant that Crowley had run out of time.

“Need any help cleaning up?” he broached cautiously.

Aziraphale paused as he bent down to pick up an unused roll of cardboard. 

“I suppose.”

He then left Crowley to bundle the boxes of pens and paint into his arms and shuffle after him.

This was clearly going to be harder than he had anticipated, if that was even possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR STICKING WITH ME!!
> 
> after the 24th everything will hopefully have calmed down and i'll have more time for all of this
> 
> as of right now i love and appreciate you all. stay cool.

**Author's Note:**

> you can follow me on twitter if you like?? @bohemianuwus lmao it's mostly just screaming into the void and retweets but it's funny-ish sometimes


End file.
